


Yayo

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Fashion & Couture, M/M, Mystery, alternative universe, present day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7551934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When haute couture fashion royalty Ciel Phantomhive meets Sebastian Michaelis, Vogue’s kingpin and purveyor of all things beautiful, sparks fly and tempers flare. But the beauty of an on-set romance is quickly tempered by past demons and forbidden secrets. When each kiss is met with the growing realization that things can’t last—not like this. </p><p>Not when his past sins have skeletons of their own and not while his heart seems so finely attuned to the sapphire beauty of one Ciel Phantomhive, who’s quickly become his favorite muse. </p><p>OR: <br/>Ciel holds his gaze for a beat and then shrugs. “I’ll let you in at some point.”</p><p>“Ah. So I’m expected to wait outside like a common escort.”</p><p>“Don’t flatter yourself.” Ciel steps back, crossing his arms. “You’re not getting paid.”</p><p>“And why is it you’re so confident I’ll show?”</p><p>At these words, the boy’s lips fix into a genuine smirk—one full of malevolent mischief and erotic desire. “I heard you’re a purveyor of fine art.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fine art

Elizabeth “Lizzy” Midford is one of the few female models Ciel enjoys working with. Perhaps “enjoy” is stretching it—he tolerates people involved in the artistic process of modeling. He enjoys Lizzy because she’s his golden haired cousin who’s never failed to remind him of happier times. It’s why he requests her whenever there’s an opening available despite the fact she’s the new face of Versace and needs to be headlining her own campaigns. Ciel knows its selfish and blatantly manipulative but Lizzy’s always loved him best so he never fails to use that fact to his advantage.

Besides, he needs a bit of indulgence for this shoot. Peter Lindbergh is currently off directing his new film—a sweeping German epic of carnation pink ballgowns and glimmering golden lights—so Yves Saint Laurent had replaced him with an English photographer known as Sebastian Michaelis. He was described by _Vogue_ editor Anna Wintour as _brilliant_ and _dark_ and _enigmatically charming_.

He was also a demanding perfectionist and notorious critic whose uncompromising visions caused such disruptions on set that models either quit halfway or were replaced by “sterner applicants” of his personal choosing.

Though this shadowy figure had earned the admiration of _Vogue_ and _Harper’s Bazaar_ , he was still, in Ciel’s mind, a less than adequate replacement for the only man who understood Ciel’s captious needs. With his milk white skin and cobalt blue hair; piercing sapphire eyes and porcelain bone structure—Ciel Phantomhive was a miracle of moonlit delicacy and exquisite beauty never before seen on another human being. He was the muse of Hermès and Oscar de la Renta, godson of Alexandra Shulman (Vogue UK’s editor-in-chief), and on speaking terms with both Karl Lagerfeld and Sarah Burton. He’d been amongst the VIP guests at Alexander McQueen’s funeral and was so renowned that he’d even been allowed to walk during Fashion Week, despite being four inches shorter than regulatory standards.

Ciel Phantomhive was luxe fashion nobility and he would _not_ be cowed by some uppity new photographer with a Monet-esque vision. Not while his mother was co-creative director of Fendi and his father ran a multibillion dollar luxury goods conglomerate. Whatever this impudent upstart dished, Ciel could take and give back with twice as much venom. He was used to respect and deference on set and this tradition would never be broken—especially by a man behind the camera lens.

* * *

 

“He’s supposed to be this great, quixotic artist, you know. I saw a few of his unreleased spring campaign pics for Rolex and they were magnificent! They looked like they were kissed by Daisy Buchanan.” Lizzy Midford sat, one legged crossed over the other, while two hairdressers worked with methodical precision on her golden curls. 

Her cousin occupied the seat opposite herself with such aristocratic nonchalance that he could have been mistaken for Mastroianni himself. “Speculation is one thing, observable evidence another.” He replied, full of blasé indifference as he inspected the messages displayed on his phone. “The vultures will feed on anyone with a hint of notoriety. He’ll fade away fast enough.”

Lizzy wrinkled her nose, looking more like the most adorable Lewis Carroll bunny rabbit than a high end fashion model. “You make him sound like the plague.”

Ciel shrugged. “I don’t particularly like him.”

“You’ve never _met_ him!”

“And I don’t want to. I shouldn’t _have_ to.” He bit back coldly. “I wanted Peter Lindbergh.”

“Peter has a million and one things to do in Düsseldorf. His film is going to look lovely so don’t dispute me on that—Petey’s earned it.” She warns sternly but with no intended malice before breaking into a beautiful, beatific smile. “Besides, you look wonderful no matter who photographs you. It’s just like the camera to be so shallow, isn’t it?”

“Beauty is a set standard.”

“I thought it was in the eye of the beholder.”

Ciel finishes messaging someone of minute importance before fixing his cousin with a wide, sapphire stare. “That’s something only ugly people say, Lizzy.” His voice is childish and matter-of-fact. “We’re both too pretty to fall into that trap.”

She bursts out laughing at his not-so-subtle mockery because what a _business_ it is! “They’ve forgotten one thing.” She manages after another giggle.

“And what’s that?”

“You’re twice as vain as I am.”

* * *

 

Sebastian Michaelis is 36 years old and very terribly annoyed. Not at anyone or anything in particular but his mood has struck past derisive amusement and has now settled on contempt—unrepentant, ruefully blatant contempt.

It’s been 43 minutes and he hasn’t caught a glimpse of his medium for the day. Ciel Phantomhive—that was the boy’s name— _And boy is right,_ he thinks with an inward sneer, _he’s barely 19._ There are very few things in this world that can truly, genuinely annoy Sebastian to the point of devilish cruelty but tardiness—particularly tardiness during a shoot—is something that never fails to arouse his baser instincts. The entire studio has been set and prepared; they’re only taking preliminaries for today, just to set up a sketch for the actual shoot tomorrow. 

The female model is an absolute delight—a burst of sunshine Sebastian rather enjoys. She is convivial and sweet and unpretentious, taking nothing as her due and treating him with the respect he’s come to associate with haute couture photography.

“Ciel’s not always like this.” She promises in between bites of a particularly juicy blood orange. “He’s just very upset Mr. Lindbergh isn’t here. He’s got a bit of a Marilyn complex—Ciel that is.”

Sebastian is vaguely interested in what she has to say. “A Marilyn complex?”

“Oh yes.” Elizabeth nods emphatically. “You know Marilyn Monroe? How she was infamous for her lateness and mercurial on-set behavior? Ciel has something like it but it’s not nearly as bad. Perhaps I’m overstating it already.” She murmurs worriedly, licking a drop of juice from the corner of her rosebud mouth. “Ciel’s very photogenic and most photographers love him.”

“A unique exception then.”

“More like well earned professionalism.” A new voice calls out from behind them.

“Ciel!” Elizabeth is suddenly a whirlwind of gold, vanishing into the shadows only to pull forth the most beautiful image Sebastian’s seen in years.

He is all at once prince and villain; fiend and saint. There is something wholly unconventional about the model standing before him and it has nothing to do with the dark blue of his hair or the cold condescension in his eyes. If his beauty was the eventide then his words—sharp and elegantly brutal—remind Sebastian of the violet hued twilight, when there is nothing but cobalt sky interspaced with a gossamer web of silver stars.

These observations run through his mind in a matter of seconds though he feels as if he’s been drowning in poetry for centuries. Instead, Sebastian proffers a hand and feels a shiver of audacious amusement when the boy only glares at it with disdainful apprehension.

“Sebastian Michaelis.” He has the hands of a pianist whereas _he_ —pale skinned and fragile—has the hands of Venus.

“Ciel Phantomhive.” The boy decrees at long last, giving Sebastian’s hand a too brief shake before letting go. “I hope you weren’t agitated by the wait.”

Elizabeth has disappeared in the midst of Sebastian’s internal monologue and he can’t say he’s sorry to see her go. “Not at all. I was entertained by your all too charming cousin.” He gives him that smile that is all at once placating and secretive, one that has sent legions of women (and men) to the sanctuaries of their bedrooms in order to relieve the sudden pressure between their thighs.

If it has the same effect on Ciel Phantomhive, Sebastian can’t quite tell.

His sapphire gaze is impassive and the set of his mouth gives nothing away. “Excellent.” Ciel responds, crossing his arms and observing the set before them. “When do we start?”

There’s a part of Sebastian that wants to say _tomorrow,_ subtly deriding the teen model on his tardiness and forcing Ciel to earn the resentment of the crew and bankrollers. But this is a minuscule fracture, easily overwhelmed by the rousing curiosity and self-admitted interest in this boy and all his beauty.

“Now.” Sebastian intones smoothly, gesturing towards the celestial backdrop of midnight and glittering silver stars. “These are only preliminary photographs. Not a single one will be published.”

“Wonderful.” He returns, caustic and so filled with sarcasm Sebastian has to bite back laughter. The boy plays cynic with a sort of flamboyant reserve that is all his own.

Sebastian likes it.

* * *

 

Ciel Phantomhive has elevated the art of abstraction into a tangible, seeable illustration—one captured by the lens of Sebastian’s camera and further magnified by the cut of his suit and the deceptive beauty of his face. He is all at once luxury and pride, a beautiful peacock parading his feathers for all the world to see. There’s an inner self-confidence Ciel Phantomhive projects that is absolutely delicious to bear witness to. In the timespan of 83 minutes, Ciel has forced Sebastian to disregard his previous grievances and focus solely on the moonlit seraph before him.

Moments after the first break is called, Ciel approaches him while he’s observing a few of the photos on the widescreen Mac computer.

“I don’t like that one.” He points at one picture of himself standing in front of an open bay window. His face has been caught in profile, left hand in one pocket of an expensively cut YSL suit while the right held an unlit cigarette that will be digitally altered to allow plumes of pale grey smoke to billow out from it.

Sebastian feels indifference towards this shot but anyone who dares criticize his work so bluntly deserves neither the patience nor the subservience this boy is clearly expecting.

“Duly noted.” Is all he says before turning back to the computer screen—though he very much wants to keep his gaze fixed on Ciel.

“Get rid of it.” 

“Is there a verbalized reason why you’ve directed your ire towards this particular image?”

Ciel moves to stand next to him. “I said I didn’t like it. The lighting is shoddy and everyone knows I don’t smoke.”

“It’s a preliminary photograph. No one will see it.”

“Then you have no reason to keep it. I’ve never liked preliminary shoots anyway but Hedi insisted.” He puts one hand on his hip, elbow brushing Sebastian’s shoulder. “It’s a waste of time.”

“A one-take wonder then.” Sebastian’s lips curl up in a half-amused smile. “How orthodox.”

Ciel turns suddenly and fixes Sebastian’s with his unwavering sapphire gaze. He is temporary mesmerized by just how _blue_ the boy’s eyes are—two unmarred pools of perfection glittering with veiled intrigue, his petal pink lips slightly open, as if he were about to say something of great importance. 

“Are you married?”

Sebastian, while not surprised by the inquiry, is surprised that Ciel is the one asking it. “No.”

“Why not?” He demands, leaning a little closer, brows furrowing ever so slightly.

It’s an image that ought to be preserved in marble—marble of the purest white—by Cellini himself. But no matter how beautiful the boy’s face may be, Sebastian has no interest in playing twenty questions all evening. “An answer, I think, would ruin the speculation of the tabloids.” He stands upright and towers over Ciel.

The boy is not moved. “We begin shooting tomorrow. 10 AM.”

“Indeed.”

“Are you staying at the Four Seasons on George V?”

His directness is amusing and so Sebastian indulges him with a truthful answer, one that brings a faint smile to the boy’s lips. “Great. You won’t have any incentive for stealing the soap afterwards.” He reaches over and grabs the pen on the front pocket of Sebastian’s blazer, allowing him to inhale a fragrance that smelt of pearls and fresh, white snow. It was blue-blooded aristocracy at its finest and the unabashed certainty this boy possessed in acknowledging and accepting his position aroused Sebastian more than he cared to admit.

Apparently, it interested the boy as well. “That’s my room number.” He says, a slip of paper slit in between his index and middle finger. “I get bored very easily.”

The situation has now become tantalizingly attractive.

It’s not that Sebastian hasn’t had offers like this before—in fact, it’d be comical to say otherwise. He has an exceptionally handsome face ( _beautiful_ is the word most often used) and a body Patrick Robinson deemed fit for Armani. The reason why he’d never accepted said offers was simple—not a single model had ever been worthy of a clandestine affair, particularly one with _him._ The boy, however, might prove interesting.

“Am I expected to knock at a designated time or is window climbing required?” He takes the proffered piece of paper, fingertips brushing against skin that’s paler than starlight but soft—meringue soft.

Ciel holds his gaze for a beat and then shrugs. “I’ll let you in at some point.”

“Ah. So I’m expected to wait outside like a common escort.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Ciel steps back, crossing his arms. “You’re not getting paid.”

“And why is it you’re so confident I’ll show?”

At these words, the boy’s lips fix into a genuine smirk—one full of malevolent mischief and erotic desire. “I heard you’re a purveyor of fine art.” Is all he gives before turning away and walking back on set.

For Sebastian, it’s the only answer he’ll ever accept—one that leaves him entranced in a cocaine-sped high.

What _fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Peter Lindbergh: German photographer and director who is credited with popularizing 90’s supermodels Linda Evangelista, Naomi Campbell, and Cindy Crawford.  
> \- Anna Wintour: editor-in-chief of U.S. Vogue, queen of the bob, and inspiration behind The Devil Wears Prada.  
> \- Sarah Burton: creative director of the Alexander McQueen fashion brand and designer of Kate Middleton’s wedding dress.  
> \- Daisy Buchanan: the beautiful but shallow socialite of Jay Gatsby's dreams as writ by the great American author, F. Scott Fitzgerald in his celebrated 20th century novel, 'The Great Gatsby'.  
> \- Hedi Slimane: former creative director of Yves Saint Laurent. (He recently appointed Anthony Vaccarello as his successor but since the finalization hasn’t been made yet I’ve just kept Hedi in charge.)  
> \- Patrick Robinson: former creative director of Armani.
> 
> **Yayo: street slang for cocaine.
> 
> A/N: Hello folks! This my first AU fic involving Kuroshitsuji and I have no idea if I’ll write more chapters (but this seemed like too fun an opportunity to pass up). To continue or not continue—that is the question. Until then, leave a review and tell me what you think! (PSA: I have no idea how a professional photoshoot works so I’ve taken some creative liberties.)


	2. sea bathing

“Do you know why everyone obsesses over the rose?” Ciel is sprawled on a kingsized bed that nearly swallows him whole. It’s covered in rich creme and blue-grey silk sheets because he dislikes sleeping on anything else.

Sebastian is standing by the open terrence, the cool Parisian air blowing in as he exhales a plume of smoke from between his lips. Against this night sky with its amber hued lights and distinctly French feel, Ciel doesn’t dislike him as much as he had this afternoon.

He rolls over onto his stomach the same time Sebastian answers his question. “No.”

“It’s because roses have the look of a flower that’s been looked at.” He answers easily, clasping his hands together and tucking them under his chin. “That’s why everyone wants a rose. Deep down, they all want to be seen.” 

Sebastian gives him a faint smirk. “Interesting how you exclude yourself from that crowd.”

Ciel gives him a look that’s a mixture of exasperation and cold annoyance. “That’s pitiful.” He declares blandly. “The eyes of the world are already on me. Besides, roses are cliche.”

“Ah.” Sebastian brings the cigarette between his lips, breathes in, and speaks. “I didn’t think you’d be one of _those._ ” Gentle tendrils of smoke billow out, chasing after each word he orphans away.

“One of _what_?”

“The indistinct face who yearns for exclusivity. Changing and clinging onto the vast differences of similar objects with the abject hope of achieving originality.”

“Your exaggerations suck.” Ciel sounds bored, removing his hands from below his chin so he can sink his cheek down onto the silk sheets. “That costs too much effort—and I’m not nearly that dedicated.” His blasé tone and effortless cool intrigues Sebastian, moves him away from the open terrence and towards Ciel.

“You’re right.” He acknowledges, standing right beside the bed, one finger coming down to brush away a lock of loose cobalt hair.

On the bed, Ciel tenses. “Can you not?” He shoves Sebastian’s hand aside. “I don’t like that.”

“May I ask why?”

“You already did.” Ciel huffs. “And it’s too… _intimate._ Creeps me out and doesn’t get you anywhere.”

Sebastian chuckles. “I was wondering when we’d come to this. You kept me waiting for half an hour.” His tone has lulled into tranquility but there’s a cold edge beneath it—one that connotes danger.

Ciel really doesn’t seem to care. “You should’ve knocked louder.”

“I would have disturbed the other guests.”

“There’s only _one_ other person who shares this floor with me and that’s Lizzy. And we both know she’s gone club hopping.” A hint of frustration glides into his tone. “And I’m _bored._ You’re doing a terrible job.”

Sebastian quirks a brow. “You haven’t specified what it is we _should_ be doing.”

“I thought it was obvious.” Ciel mumbles, sapphire eyes flickering up to meet Sebastian’s. “Seduce me already.”

 

* * *

  

His lips are a adorable petal pink pout and Sebastian’s had just about enough of his petulance. This _child_ had the audacity to taunt and tease every fiber of Sebastian’s being—from forcing him to prowl about his own suite like a caged animal to waiting outside his door for an embarrassingly long period of time—

Ciel Phantomhive was pushing Sebastian to his very _limit_ and, for whatever reason, Sebastian was allowing it. He was far too interesting to part with and his demands were sharply worded, carrying subtleties that betrayed their superficial veneer. There was a tete a tete occurring between them and while it stimulated Sebastian’s brilliant mind, it had also aroused a very carnal desire in him and Ciel had made it difficult to satisfy that craving.

_Had._

Now that Sebastian knew what game he was playing, he rather liked it. It was _fun_ and so terribly wicked that his half-hard arousal became a very real thing and the smile on his face took on a more sinister edge. “Is that all?” He inquired silkily, moving with panther-like grace.

In half a second, he was seated next to Ciel, the boy’s lap adjacent to Sebastian’s thigh.

“I hadn’t realized you liked games this much.”

“Don’t you read _Elle_? I’m interviewed every day. Everyone wants to know what traits constitute my ideal match.” His tone is neutral but his breathing has become harsher. More wanting. Sebastian runs one hand down Ciel’s back, following the curve of his spine. Ciel flips himself over suddenly, bare chested and exposed. “I’m not a cat.”

“No. You’re not.” Sebastian agrees. “You are far more tempestuous than a cat.” Sebastian leans down, lips against Ciel’s ear. “I’ve known you for five hours and you’ve somehow ingrained your face in my mind. I dislike the thought of being separated from you just yet.” His right hand comes to grip Ciel’s waist, yanking him into a sitting position before Sebastian’s mouth is on his.

Ciel’s lips are plump and soft and delicate—but Ciel is not. He attacks back just as viciously, arms wrapping around Sebastian’s neck and blunt teeth nipping and teasing and sucking until Sebastian slips his own tongue into Ciel’s mouth and he _moans._

And what a pretty moan it is.

Sebastian’s lips and tongue trail kisses down Ciel’s chin and jaw until his mouth comes to rest on the soft pink of Ciel’s nipple. His tongue flicks around it, earning a shallow hiss of _yes!_ from Ciel before the dance begins—insatiate and searching, Sebastian’s teeth scrape against Ciel’s skin with possessive want.

“This isn’t seduction.” Ciel pants when Sebastian’s allowed him a brief moment of respite. His legs, milky white and slim, are wrapped around Sebastian’s waist and he’s half on top of the older man, cock pert and pressed against Sebastian’s lower stomach. One hand comes to yank a fistful of Sebastian’s black hair, who returns the favor by rolling his hips up—ever so slightly.

Another moan. One accompanied by a soft whimper of _more, more, more._

“This isn’t a romance.” Sebastian counters, eyes sharp with warning.

The boy’s lips twitch into something of a half-smile and his pale cheeks—flushed pink with color—glows. “Thank god we're on the same page. I was worried you’d start sprouting poetry or some shit. I just really wanna be fucked tonight.”

“Is this a test you set up before all your trysts?”

“Yup. Lets me figure out which ones are good for another round and which ones need to leave _now._ Emotions are messy.” He finishes, barely catching a glimpse of Sebastian’s feral smirk.

“Indeed.” He agrees for the last time tonight. “And so’s this.”

He pushes Ciel against the headboard, ripping away the silk sheets to reveal that vixen had been lying in bed nude the entire time.

“So this is why you refused to get up.” Sebastian muses, eyes drinking in the sight of an intoxicatingly frail beauty.

“Fuck off.”

“Not yet.” The satin of his voice is smoother than Ciel’s sheets and his fingers—long, elegant, and _nimble_ —glide down Ciel’s chest to the base of his erection with calculated carelessness. When Sebastian slips his forefinger inside Ciel, the boy’s hips buck upward and a curse escapes his deceptively angelic mouth. One hand claws down Sebastian’s back, permanently ruining his black Tom Ford dress shirt while the other snakes its way to the back of Sebastian’s head, fingers greedily clutching at fistfuls of silky black hair. “Eager?” Sebastian prompts, voice laced with subtle mockery.

Ciel hisses in response, one knee coming up to jab the side of Sebastian’s finely defined stomach. “Fuck. Off.” He snaps though his next words are choked down by the feel of Sebastian’s second finger, probing deeper into Ciel’s pale pink ass with the expertise of one who relishes the choked cries of those below him. Ciel bites back another moan—the touch of Sebastian’s fingers, slender and long, arouses blatant desire from within him. And just then, with sudden blinding speed, he flips Ciel over so that his face is pressed against the silk sheets and sweat soaked back exposed to the fine material of Sebastian’s shirt.

Sebastian’s fingers move with methodical precision while he lightly straddles the boy underneath him.

The pressure builds in Ciel’s lower stomach and he can feel that unwieldy sense of urgency that accompanies an orgasm as Sebastian continues to scissor his fingers inside him, pushing Ciel closer and closer to the brink until—

The sound of exported silver and Armenian leather pierces the thick atmosphere surrounding them. Ciel is dimly aware of the sound of shifting fabric when—“ _Fuck!_ ”

He doesn’t know when, where, or how Sebastian got his hands on the lube but the feel of him—hard and _fucking perfect_ —being sheathed inside his pert, snow-white ass is almost too much to bear. He’s big—bigger than anyone Ciel’s ever fucked and it takes him a while to adjust but Sebastian is patient and only chuckles softly when Ciel moans again, wanting and eager.

“For someone who spoke so freely only moments ago, your silence is refreshing.” His voice is so coolly refined that it pisses Ciel off.

He wants Sebastian flustered and panting like he is because if the hardness of his dick is any measure of desire, then Sebastian’s just as ready to fuck as he is.

Gritting his teeth, Ciel rolls his hips up and Sebastian, not expecting him to adjust so quickly, gives a hiss of pleasure. Ciel smirks, though his victory is quick to dissolve into a series of breathless, indecipherable curses as both hands fist at the silk sheets around them.

Sebastian’s patience has come to its end.

“I don’t take kindly to subservience.” He snarls from above Ciel, beginning a steady, languid pace that sets him on edge—has him hyperaware of his surroundings; the darkness of the room, the suffocating heat, Sebastian cool words and his perfect cock. “You kept me waiting for nearly an hour on set and then another thirty in this room while you engaged in a vaudeville for your own pleasure.” Ciel whimpers beneath him and wants to throw back a few choice words as well but in this disoriented haze of _almost,_ he can’t be bothered.

Sebastian leans down, soft fine hair brushing against Ciel’s burning cheek. “I extract payment differently.” His teeth graze Ciel’s neck, pausing at his pulse point before Ciel is almost lifted off the bed as Sebastian slams into him with enough force to temporarily stun Ciel with a mixture of pain and pleasure.

He regains his senses quickly because _this—_ this is a battleground he could work with.

Ciel meets Sebastian’s thrusts with unrelenting ferocity, relishing the tight grip the older man has on his waist and delighting in the bruises that will appear there come morning. “Faster.” Ciel manages between gasps. “Fucking faster!”

Sebastian’s hand comes to fondle Ciel’s pretty pink cock and it—just like the rest of him—is taut and silken and dripping with pre-cum.

With a combination of touches and thrusts and breathless commands, Ciel reaches the apex of earthly pleasure and comes with a moan, heart beating erratically.

“Much better.” Sebastian’s voice is tight and wonderfully obscene and— _oh!_ He comes with a shudder inside Ciel, the cut of his shirt and the harsh denim of his jeans arousing the younger man all the more. Sebastian rides out his high and Ciel marvels at how _enjoyable_ it was.

Ciel knows Sebastian’s finished when the older man lightly drapes himself across Ciel’s body. It’s a strange sensation—thousand count cotton, black leather belts, dark wash denim jeans, and the feel of Ciel’s strawberry and cream skin.

“You’re heavy.” Ciel finally mutters, rolling around so that Sebastian’s cock is now pressed against his abdomen.

They’re face to face and Ciel rather likes seeing that Sebastian’s Adonis-like face hasn’t been marred by exertion.

“Apologies.” The bastard smirks, rising from the bed and moving to sit beside Ciel. “You’re more delicate then what I’m used to.”

“And what are you used to?”

“A variety.” Is the vague answer he receives but Ciel doesn’t dwell on it.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. You can shower before leaving.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“God no. I told you—I hate cliches.” Ciel brings himself to lie on his right side, propping his head up with his free hand while the other plays with the hem of a silk throw pillow. “If you want a second round, come back tomorrow.”

“And why is it I have to come to you?” Sebastian produces a cigarette from his back pocket and a lighter from one of the mahogany nightstands by Ciel’s bed.

An irate sapphire stare greets him when he turns back around. “I thought it was obvious.” His left hand gestures around randomly, highlighting the luxury of his royal suite. “My room’s the nicest.”

A faint smile appears on Sebastian’s face. “You don’t know where I’m staying.”

Ciel rolls his eyes. “Unless you’re in the penthouse, I’m not fucking in a suite.” Sebastian is silent and Ciel’s jaw drops. “Holy _shit_ —fuck you!” He jerks himself upright into a sitting position. “ _You_ stole my penthouse?”

“The manager is an acquaintance of mine from university.” He shrugs with fake modesty.

A brief moment of silence ensues as Ciel absorbs this fact. “So you’re not just some newfangled rookie who got lucky.”

A delicate curl of grey smoke escapes Sebastian’s lips but he gives no response.

“I’ve changed my mind.” Ciel announces suddenly, eyeing the dark-haired man critically. “I want dinner.”

Sebastian gauges Ciel for a beat, an expression of bemusement and calculated precision. One hand tucks itself under Ciel’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “I’ll buy you dinner. I’ll buy you whatever you want. But this petulance of yours must cease.” 

“So you caught onto that, huh?”

“You despise me.” Sebastian says matter-of-factly.

“Wrong.” Ciel corrects with aristocratic grace. “I _used_ to despise you. Now I tolerate you.”

“After one night? My, my.”

“Wrong again. You’re terrible at this.” Ciel moves to straddle Sebastian’s lap. “I’ll tolerate you after you buy me dinner, fucking calm down during the shoot tomorrow, and stop smoking around me. I’m not gonna be the one with an epitaph that reads ‘died by secondhand smoke’ forty years from now.” He crosses his arms. “Agreed?”

And while this event had been more for Sebastian’s benefit than Ciel’s, the photographer can’t help but admire the blatantly selfish motives of this individual before him. A sapphire—a blue-blooded scion of the cruelest kind.

Sebastian likes it—so he agrees.

 

* * *

 

In the plush merlot-hued staterooms of the Ivoryhill Estate, Charles Grey sleepily opens one eye to find his latest conquest vanished—not a trace of gold or emerald anywhere. And while this would usually be a welcome sight, Grey can’t deny that he’s a tiny bit upset that she didn’t even have the courtesy to say goodbye. She’d been _fun_ —spirited, devil-may-care _fun._ Didn’t she realize how rare it was that he actually _liked_ a one-night stand?

Sure she talked too much but her laugh was charming and she could hold her liquor better than Phipps and Brown _combined._ In fact, he hadn’t even approached her with the intention of sleeping with her. She’d been holding court at the Crimson Lounge and attracted a cult following of some twenty or so men and Grey had been curious.

_“—but of course he was devilishly handsome—he looked a bit like a fox mixed with Warren Beatty—and very witty and charming and a perfect example of a less clever Don Draper. So I suppose he was rather surprised when my parry caught him between the ribs and he had to yield to a girl with two pigtails and a cotton candy pink skirt.”_

She’d been regaling her troops with a story of how some hotshot actor (who was starring in a Tom Cruise directed action film) had learned some basic fencing moves and thought it prudent to lord this fact over everyone he’d met. Lizzy had been on location shooting an ad for Gucci and challenged said actor to a friendly one-on-one duel.

The actor lost.

Badly.

Shuffling his way to his private kitchen, Grey wondered if she would be flattered to receive a phone call from him later on. She wouldn’t be hard to find and—

 _Did he smell pancakes?_ With his nose on high alert, Grey wandered seamlessly through a maze of white marble floors and silver halls before he arrived at the Sunroom Parlor to see a feast of chocolate chip pancakes, sunny side up eggs, crisp bacon, a glass decanter of orange juice with white blossoms dropped in, and a bowl of freshly cut strawberries arranged in the shape of a sun. A small place card stood next to the lonely white plate.

_To Mister C. Grey — breakfast is served! I woke up a bit too early and didn’t know how to say goodbye without waking you (though you are a dreadfully heavy sleeper) so I decided breakfast might make for a fine Treaty of Versailles. Call me why don’t you? x Lizzy_

For a split second, Grey thought he’d slipped into the twilight zone. This girl could take down pretenders, spin a dope as fuck story, kiss him until he felt dizzy with want, _and_ make breakfast? Sitting himself down, Grey decided on three very fundamental, very important things: 1) he was going to track down and find Lizzy Midford no matter what the cost; 2) she was, as of now, his; 3) anyone else who disputed this fact could take it up with his lawyers and his 17th century French steel blade.

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Treaty of Versailles: signed on June 28, 1919, it effectively ended WWI after five years of fighting.
> 
> \- In this story, Ciel and Lizzy are not engaged. And since I’m a shameless Grey/Lizzy shipper, I had to throw them in somehow. (Can anyone guess who owns the Crimson Lounge?) 
> 
> A/N: I originally decided not to add a second chapter and to just leave it as a one-shot. But…then I watched the biopic ‘Yves Saint Laurent’ starring Pierre Niney and—My. Goodness. I just HAD to write more. He and Guillaume Gallienne absolutely killed it as YSL and Pierre Bergé, respectively. Argh—if any of you get the chance, watch ‘Yves Saint Laurent’ ASAP! It’s an amazing film and an absolute haven for any decadent fashion lover. 
> 
> Also: I don’t know how many chapters this fic will have but it certainly won’t be as long as Bright Star. (Maybe 10 chapters at most.)
> 
> Still—thank you to everyone who read and supported this story! Leave a review below and tell me what you thought! I very rarely, if ever, write explicit scenes so I’m not sure this was any good. Nevertheless, it was quite fun! ^^


	3. the affair

“You,” Charles Grey intones, “are a difficult lady to keep track of.” 

Lizzy, seated poolside with a fruity concoction of pineapple and mango in hand, lifts up her Gucci sunglasses to see a silvery haired (and irate) playboy standing in front of her. She grins.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Well,” Grey’s eyes skim over Lizzy’s very exposed body, “you made me breakfast. It’s only fair I take you out to lunch.” She’s wearing a skimpy Beach Bunny bikini in a shade of jungle green; the cheeky bottoms are tied together with gold chains that serve to emphasize the pale creaminess of her skin. With one hand, Grey lifts up her smooth, fantastically toned thighs and sits down on the lounge, draping her legs over his lap. “Get dressed.”

Lizzy pouts. “You’re terribly bossy today.”

“I drove all around Paris looking for you—forgive me if I’m not in a hospitable mood at the moment.” He returns sarcastically but even _he_ doesn’t know why he’s so irritated. Finding her hadn’t been the problem—seeing her was.

There she was, lounging on a pool chaise without a care in the world while he’d spent the past two hours scouring all of Paris for her. That, in his mind, was more than a bit unfair.

“You could’ve just looked me up in the yellow pages. Or, you know, Google.” She smiles, sunglasses in hand while she takes a long sip of her drink.

“ _You_ could’ve just left me your phone number. Like normal women do.”

“Oh— _don’t_.” Lizzy sets the Gucci frames on top of her head. “If I did, you wouldn’t have called me and then I would’ve become angry, showed up at your estates swords ready and absolutely furious. Then I would have had to break down your fancy door because you wouldn’t want to fight a girl but then you’d see how good I was so you’d take me on. Then we’d banter and you’d say something degrading but complimentary that would make me more upset so while you’re distracted, I would’ve knocked you unconscious with a handy, nearby vase and then you would’ve woken up tied to your bed and completely at my mercy.” She takes another quick sip. “I mean, there’s room for some variation but that’s how it’ll turn out. Most likely.”

Throughout her little tirade Grey had gone from surprised, to intrigued, to downright amused and was now doing his best to keep the smile from forming on his lips. “You put way too much thought into that.”

She shrugs. “I’ve been at the pool all day.”

“You wanted me to find you?”

At those words, Lizzy sits up and smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Well obviously! I’ve been here since one o’clock and do you know how much sunscreen I’ve had to slather on?” She gestures towards the glass paned pool house roof. “My skin morphs into a lobster shell under the sun. It’s a Phantomhive trait.”

Suddenly, a devious smirk appears on Grey’s face. With a light tug, he yanks Lizzy onto his lap, fully, and rests his head on her chest, mouth inches away from her right breast. “So would I be correct in assuming that you wore _this_ ,” one hand comes to tug at her bikini top, “is for _me_?”

“Well I certainly didn’t wear it to get the stink eye from middle aged women who’ve been glaring at me for the past hour.” She retorts tartly but the playful lilt in her voice gives it all away.

Grey snuggles closer to Lizzy. She’s warm and smells like citrus blossoms and lemon candy. “I think we need to visit Edmond soon.”

One of Lizzy’s hands finds their way to Grey’s hair and she begins to play with the silverly strands. He practically purrs at the sensation.

“Who’s Edmond?”

“Tattoo artist.”

Lizzy makes a face. “ _You’re_ getting a tattoo?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He glances upward, cheeky and mischievous and far too good looking for his own good. “You are.”

“ _Me?_ ”

“Yes. You’re gonna get _Propriété de Charles Grey_ tattooed on that magnificent ass of yours.”

“That’s so medieval! And trashy—like 2000s trashy!”

His hold on her bikini top tightens. “How else is everyone going to know you’re mine?”

“Duh. Cannes Film Festival.” She rolls her eyes and pats his head like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Is this your way of suggesting I should take you?”

“Oh, honey no.” Lizzy bends down to kiss him before pulling away, their faces centimeters apart. “This is me denying you sex for a month _unless_ you take me.”

“Oh-ho. Creative incentives, huh?”

Lizzy grins. “Exactly! Ciel always calls it blackmail but I think that sounds rather horrid, don’t you?”

“What’s horrid is how little you’re wearing and how overdressed I am.” He wraps one arm around her waist and seconds later, he’s standing and carrying her bridal style, a rather lustful smirk on his mouth. “Let’s go.”

Cuddling into Grey’s chest, Lizzy only has one cognizant thought before Grey bends down to kiss her.

“Does this mean I’m your lunch?”

 

* * *

 

Ciel is seated in the director’s chair during their noon break, texting on his phone while a porcelain plate of half eaten sushi rests on the table next to him.

Sebastian appears as a shadow would, undetected and sly with an all knowing half-smile on his bloodless mouth. “Busy?” He's adjusting a Sony Alpha a99 camera in his hands though his carmine eyes flit to Ciel’s slight form every few seconds.

“Sort of.” With model like grace, he drops the phone on his lap and looks up at Sebastian. “Lizzy’s gone off with some playboy and I’ve been tasked with keeping this shit out of the tabloids.”

“My, my, such responsibility for one so young.”

The glare he receives is one of icy reproach and unmistakable warning.

Sebastian smiles pleasantly and continues work on his camera. _A new lens is needed._

“She’s done this before.” Ciel crosses one leg over the other, phone in hand. “She goes off with some suitor, has a torrid affair, gets her heart broken, and then the bloodhounds pick up on her trail because the fucker decides to sell the story to the press.” He leans back, exposing the meringue white column of his throat. “It’s a shit show just waiting to happen.”

Sebastian feigns a hum of sympathy before placing the camera on a nearby table and tilting Ciel’s chin up, coming face to face with irate blue eyes.

“Have dinner with me.” He commands.

The boy scowls. “No.”

“Do you have a reason for this answer or shall I have to contend with childish immaturity again?" 

“I don’t want to.”

Sebastian chuckles darkly. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Will you fuck off.” Ciel pushes his hand away. “I just don’t want to eat. With you.”

“Fine. I’ll simply eat you out instead.”

Ciel’s eyes flash. “That was _not_ an invitation.”

“And _I_ am not a marionette doll you can dangle on a string.” A coldness seeps into his tone and it’s dangerous—a knife balanced between an assassin’s fingertips, just waiting to slice open new flesh. “I expect genuine answers from you, Mr. Phantomhive. Your parlor tricks bore me.” His mouth comes dangerously close to Ciel’s own lips and a kiss is just a breath away from happening.

He watches as the boy’s eyes flicker, for just half a second, between Sebastian and the half centimeter between them.

With a chuckle, the raven haired man pulls back and steps away, delighting in the faint flush on his young muse’s cheeks. “Good afternoon, Mr. Phantomhive.” He gives a slight bow, derisive and elegant and filled with spite.

Ciel remains seated, breath uneven and painfully aroused.

 

* * *

 

A knock on Sebastian’s penthouse door at 2 AM takes his attention away from the various negatives spread out in front of him. He runs one hand through his untamed dark hair while the other takes off his glasses, placing them down on the kitchen counter.

The door swings open to reveal Ciel Phantomhive arrayed in an oversized white dress shirt and black oxfords. “Here’s the deal,” he begins without preamble, “we have sex. We get off. I leave. That’s the extent of our… _relationship_.” He scowls at the word as a nun would do explicit language.

Sebastian arches a brow, leaning against the doorframe all the while drinking in Ciel’s tantalizing form. “Dinner can always be part of such a pastime.”

“In my experience, people who want dinner also want emotional substance.”

“I merely want to dine with someone I find intriguing.” The photographer returns, somewhat bemused. “I hardly think _that_ alone is going to give us a platform to stand on.”

Ciel crosses his arms, skeptical. “Dinner and sex? That’s it? You’re not going to stalk me are you?”

“Don’t we think highly of ourselves.”

“I’m just saying. There are some sick, twisted people out there.” His tone is blasé but his eyes, Sebastian notices immediately, hold a small inkling of fear and he knows—he _knows_ —that Ciel is hiding something far darker than emotional stasis.

In fact, the older man decides, this boy seems to have been made for him—every inch of Ciel is perfection, sharp edged and sure. Sebastian always liked beautiful things and Ciel was the loveliest of them all.

With a half-amused smirk, Sebastian steps back and pushes the door ajar. “Come inside.”

“You kill me and my father will hunt you down and flay you alive.”

“Oh I don’t doubt it.” He agrees contentedly, watching Ciel debate the wisdom of such a decision before shrugging and walking inside. “Now,” Sebastian turns, pinning Ciel to the door and effectively slamming it shut, “how would you like dinner?”

 

* * *

 

It’s around 5 AM when Ciel falls asleep and Sebastian is smoking a Marlboro, stark naked, on the marble balcony overlooking Paris. The night air is cool and fragrant while the glittering yellow lights radiate city life. He exhales a plume of smoke right when his cell phone rings.

“Hello?” Sebastian walks back out, closing the glass doors behind him with a careful touch. _Ciel on his back, legs spread and knees bent on the crimson carpet, back seared red from the ferocity of Sebastian’s thrusts._

“Michaelis.” The clipped, impatient tone of William T. Spears, attorney at large, snaps through the cellular device.

Sebastian smirks. “Will. How are you these days?” _The feel of him pulsing around Sebastian, arms spread out in crucification as wide, sapphire eyes challenge the man looming over him._

“Better if you would return my phone calls when I actually make them.” He returns sourly, clearly irritated but unwilling to start an outright verbal sparring session. “The point being Michaelis, unless you’re on the verge of death—pick up your phone when I call.”

“You sound every bit the jealous ex-lover, Will.” He suppresses a chuckle. _“Faster.” Ciel demands, arching his narrow hips up. “Harder.”_

“You are a repugnant human being.” The older man sneers and Sebastian can vividly picture him adjusting his glasses with prudish indignation. Another sigh is heard over the line. “I still can’t understand why I’m doing this for you. I’m a _corporate_ lawyer, not a prosecutor.”

The distant sound of late hour taxis and elegant Parisian dinner parties echo around him, a faint but welcome dissonance from his own thoughts and musings. Everything is sable and midnight blue, dotted with aged street lamps that glow for those who can’t seem to sleep alone. A wry half-smile adorns Sebastian’s lips as he recollects how the little prince seemed to find such pleasure in the forceful, primitive release so unsuited for his pale skin and delicate features. How he never seemed to sweat—nothing so inelegant as that—but _burn_ with intensity and want of release.

His desperate choked cries were what spurred on Sebastian’s own undoing, listening to his whimpers and sighs as a tidal wave of pleasure smoothed and beautified Ciel's ethereal features, schooling his expression into one of contented bliss. Sebastian found that fascinating, particularly with how greedily Ciel seemed to take his pleasure, eagerly squirming closer to Sebastian when he was on the brink of collapse.

Such a lustful, moonlit prince.

Will’s voice breaks through Sebastian’s revere with an impatient _Michaelis._

“Hm? Sorry Will, repeat that again.” It’s not so much a request as it is an order but Will owes him and Sebastian’s never been one for unnecessary subservience.

“I’ll say this one last time and then I’m hanging up and you can find someone else to waylay your problems to.” There is the faint rustle of paper followed by the uncapping of an overtly expensive fountain pen. “My paralegal faxed me this late last night but I couldn’t be sure if the source was reliable.”

“Then why tell me now?”

“She’s in the city, Michaelis.”

Sebastian stills. 

For the first time in a long time, he feels a slight hint of genuine aggravation running down his spine. “How.” His voice is level, deceptively calm as he takes another inhale, barely feeling the effects of nicotine and tobacco as his mind whirls a mile a minute.

“I warned you of her psychosis but you failed to listen to me.”

“I was curious.”

“You slept with an escaped mental patient!” Rarely does William express what he’s truly feeling but _honestly_ —what did he _expect_ from a madwoman whose become infatuated with his very existence?

“She didn’t escape. All her paperwork was done with the i’s dotted and t’s crossed.”

“Angela Blanc is a diagnosed psychotic.”

Sebastian impresses the spent cigarette on the marble balcony, watching as the last sparks of red fade into grey, blending in with the rest of the charred ash. “I can’t leave Paris. The campaign shoot isn’t done and I have no intention of besmirching my reputation just for the sake of her comfort.”

There is a brief pause from the other line followed by the click of a pen cap. “I’ll call you when I know more though I still can’t fathom why you won’t hire your own attorney. Preferably one who actually specializes in criminal law.”

“I prefer to keep a low profile with some things.”

“You’re mad.”

“Hm.” Sebastian smirks, turning to view the unconscious model in his bed. “Aren’t we all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And nope—Will and Seb are *not* ex-lovers. Sebastian just said that to get a rise out of William. XD
> 
> I haven’t forgotten Yayo but, alas, my muse can be quite fickle.


	4. a revelation

There’s a certain charm to waking up late though Ciel much prefers the feel of Sebastian sliding between his legs, cock hard and slick and pulsing while Ciel moans at the sensation.

“I don’t suppose you would care for a demonstration of my domestic skills now?” The older man inquires with a slight smirk and arched brow.

Ciel keeps his eyes closed but turns around, his body supple and willing, as he rolls onto his stomach, giving Sebastian better access to his plump, firm ass. He’s about retort with a rather rude _no, fuck you_ before Sebastian rocks his hips at a faster pace, angling to hit _that spot_ and all Ciel can think of is the crescendo of pleasure building in his lower stomach. His breaths are ragged as he clutches the hotel pillow to his chest, right hand splayed against the dark cherrywood headboard because Sebastian knows how to work his body _perfectly_. Too perfectly.

His hands, with those long, elegant pianist fingers, slide under Ciel’s belly so Sebastian’s grip on the younger man’s hips is tight and unrelenting. He can feel the bruises appearing but when Sebastian sinks down inside him, Ciel can’t help but shudder and the strangled cry of _please_ is on the tip of his tongue.

It’s too early to beg so he chants Sebastian’s name. Even with his full length buried inside him, Ciel is a proud, arrogant boy but, as his own cock twitches with anticipation, he considers giving the bastard a permanent room key to his suite.

“ _Fuck._ ” Sebastian growls and it’s the first time Ciel’s heard him sound so agitated, so _close_. 

He gives an experimental wiggle of his hips and Sebastian hisses, clearly annoyed with this brief loss of control. A huff of laughter escapes Ciel’s lips and Sebastian stills momentarily before—

“Ow—what the— _fuck_!” Without warning or hesitation, Sebastian’s pace becomes relentless and the drive is much less controlled—more primal, actually, but _shit,_ it feels good.

It isn’t long until Ciel’s vision clouds with a melange of colors, blurring the bright yellow sun as Sebastian’s deft fingers bring him release and he himself spills into Ciel without warning or question. Lying on his stomach, hot and flushed and sticky, Ciel feels as if his conscious has been lifted from his corporeal body and he’s fucking floating. It’s an odd sensation of pure pleasure, filling him with hazy contentment and sleepiness—he's tired and fulfilled and lets out a low, satisfied hum.

Sebastian, on the other hand, is breathing harshly and puts his weight on his left forearm to keep from crushing Ciel’s frail body. He’s still inside the younger man, which is odd enough, but the tightness of his own jaw and the erratic beating of his heart connote strangeness that stems from something beyond physical exertion. Sebastian has the strange desire to brush the dark cobalt hair tickling the nape of Ciel’s neck but stays his hand.

Instead, and with great reluctance, he leaves his muse and model and makes his way to the bathroom.

“Where’re you going?”

“To shower.” Is the curt reply.

Ciel rolls onto his side, right hand propping up his head as he lays there like a Pre-Raphaelite angel. “I want breakfast.” There’s a playful lilt in his voice that’s rarely there and Sebastian pauses.

The more decent part of him wants to wash his hands of Angela Blanc but that would mean distancing Ciel. The selfish, greater part of him says _fuck it._

So Sebastian leans against the wall, half-smile on his lips and concedes. “Shower with me and I’ll make you breakfast.”

“If it’s as good as the dinner you made I’m more than willing to put on an exhibition.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why aren’t you married?” Ciel asks again, curled up contently on Sebastian’s lap, sleepy and sated from sex and breakfast. “You’re not one of those mentally deranged stalkers are you?” There’s a note of suspicion in his voice but otherwise, he’s free to let him spin whatever story he wishes.

Sebastian, reviewing the various photos taken from the day before, pauses. “I never knew you to be so unnecessarily nosy.”

“I was just asking.” Ciel snaps back but there’s less bite to it this time—his cheek is pressed against Sebastian’s chest and his fingers are playing with the top three buttons of his unbuttoned dress shirt. Black, as usual. “You need to lighten up.”

“So do these negatives.”

“You’re evading.”

Sebastian presses the home button on his iPad. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply don’t care to tell you.”

“Fine.” Ciel flops around until he’s laying on his back, head cradled on top of Sebastian’s thighs and arms crossed over his abdomen. “Fucking be that way.”

“I was merely parlaying in your favor. Had I answered, courtesy would have required me to redirect that inquiry right back at you.”

“My answer’s simple—I haven’t found anyone I wanted to sleep, talk, and fuck with that didn’t leave me with a migraine the next morning.”

“That’s the typical answer isn’t it?” The clear morning light makes the delphinium sky even bluer, bringing a taste of Provence with it. “Youth enables you to delay the inevitable without any question but once you reach a certain age, it becomes an anomaly that can only be sustained if you are either wealthy or attractive enough to waylay suspicions of  insanity or a rejection of the American dream.”

Ciel’s face is blank though his sapphire eyes burn with something Sebastian can vaguely identify as curiosity. “So you’re saying that even if I kept this shit up with you, you wouldn’t feel any different?”

Sebastian wants a cigarette. “I suppose not. But then again, even I can’t predict the future.” He’s left his Marlboros on his nightstand in the bedroom.

But Ciel’s weight is comforting and Sebastian is reluctant to get up.

“You know who you sound like?”

“Is this an answer that will even remotely satisfy me?”

“Probably not.” There’s an impish quality to Ciel now, a devilish little boy who wants to make strife and mischief. “But I’m gonna say it anyway—you’re like Richard Burton.”

“The Shakespearean actor?”

“Well, I remember him as Liz Taylor’s fifth and sixth husband.”

Sebastian grimaces. “How fickle is history. The man portrayed the nuances of the human heart with such painstaking clarity yet the rivers of time only commemorate him as one half of a doomed liaison never meant to last.”

“You’re going melodramatic on me again.” He shifts in Sebastian’s lap, laying on his cheek, eye level with Sebastian’s lower stomach. “Am I invited to your fifth and sixth wedding?”

“As my concubine?”

Ciel nuzzles his pale porcelain cheek against Sebastian’s groin, suppressing a grin of satisfaction when he feels the artist’s arousal beginning to strain against the dark denim. “As your guest.” He corrects, perfectly insubordinate while Sebastian looks down on him with a visage of false calm.

“Hm.” He breathes out, breath even and controlled.

“If you really want a short reception, just give me the top of the cake and deny everyone the privilege of the bride’s garter.”

“You would look lovely in a corset.”

Ciel’s blunt white teeth flash before he nips the bulge between Sebastian’s legs.

That does it.

Flexing one hand Sebastian yanks Ciel by his dark cobalt hair until they’re face to face, sapphire meeting ruby. Without another word, Sebastian presses a bruising, violet kiss to Ciel’s waiting mouth and for the rest of the morning, nothing else is said.

 

* * *

 

**October 12, 2011**

The baroque interior of Poland’s Rydzyna ballroom alluded to a cloud carved Olympus, complete with pure white Corinthian columns and chandeliers of ornate crystal and gilt modeled after the late Napoleonic era. Yet it was the wide, sky blue ceiling fresco that commanded the party goers attention—depicted above was a wedding, celebratory with cherubs, wine, angels, and heaven. The bride and groom were bedecked in silken cloths of pricey Roman stature and, with the candlelight all aglow, the image seemed to inspire a touch of divine grace that unfurled throughout the ballroom, tinting the champagne gold and giving wings to the feet of earthbound angels.

Sebastian was rather bored with the whole affair. He’d agreed to come as a favor to Anna but the drinks were Moët not Dom Perignon, the guests had been aged to wintry antiquity, and there was a distinct lack of shallow human beauty for Sebastian to amuse himself with. The stares of wanting, fainthearted women repulsed him and the not-so-subtle innuendos of inebriated men annoyed him.

Walking towards the grand piano, Sebastian was mildly surprised to find a hidden aperture of glass and gilt that led out to a pale marble veranda. The gauzy white drapes had hidden this gem from view and with little else to do, Sebastian slipped past the diaphanous material and exited the intemperate ballroom, delighting in the cool October breeze. With eyes closed he could smell the crisp, sweet scent of gala apples and the rejuvenating freshness of midnight dewdrops.

“Oh pardon me sir, but did you happen to close the door behind you?” A powder soft, almost soundless voice, was lifted through the air and her inquiry was more entertainment than Sebastian had in the past hour.

So he turned around and—with a silent sigh of approval—a slow, possessive smirk appeared on his too handsome features. The woman before him was slim and graceful, dressed in a gown of pale lavender that matched her wide, earnest eyes and complimented the pale ivory of her unblemished skin. She was timid, almost afraid, as she stood before him with hands clasped before her and pale hair caressed by the mild breeze.

“I may have, yes.” Sebastian returned, eyes appraising and tone watchful. He swept her hand in his and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles, watching from the corner of his eye as she flushed pink and turned her gaze down. “Are you planning a massacre?” His smile is sharp and cutting, exposing his pointed canines and harshening his sculpted features.

The girl trembles and shakes her head frantically. “Oh no sir, it’s just—you can’t open the door from the outside.” Her blush deepens. “I left for some air twenty minutes ago and, well, I wasn’t able to return back inside.” She murmurs shyly and Sebastian is practically preening. _What_ ** _fun_** _this was going to be._

Standing at his full height, Sebastian has not relinquished his hold on her hand and merely turns it around, gazing into her violet eyes with passionate intensity before turning her wrist over and pressing a heated kiss to the palm of her head.

She gasps, broken and aroused as Sebastian takes one step, and then another, until they stand only inches apart. “Sebastian Michaelis.” His voice is low and desirous, carmine eyes aglow.

“A-Angela Blanc, sir.” She manages, gaze steadfastly fixed on the ground beneath them.

“And tell me Angela, how do you like Poland?” He slips one hand beneath her chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

“It’s…much nicer than Manchester.”

He leans in ever so slightly, voice practically a purr. “How so?”

“I find everything in Poland much more spacious and…free.” She responds honestly, missing Sebastian’s silent chuckle. “I can see trees and rivers and beautiful things again.”

“Manchester held none of that?”

“I was very confined during my stay there.” She sounds a little disgruntled, like a lost, vacant little doll.

It’s her subservience that finally does Sebastian in.

“Angela?”

“Yes?” She answers quickly—too quickly—and blushes. “I mean—yes, _sir_?”

Sebastian dips his head down, words soft and steady against her mouth. “Would you like to call me that in bed?”

“B-bed?”

He leans back and her eyes are as wide as saucers. “Well?” He prompts and is surprised by the sudden fire now alight in those lavender depths. 

“You’ll take me away from all this?” Her voice is eerily calm but Sebastian is too amused to care.

“Nothing would please me more.”

If her kiss seems a little too sharp, Sebastian ignores it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, look at that! An update that didn’t take a century to complete XD 
> 
> Reviews keep me going (because I’m fickle like that ^-^)


	5. madam red

Rain pours down from the overcast heavens, tinting the finely lined cobblestone streets of Paris a shade darker and transforming the entire city into the last kiss goodbye. One could almost expect Rick and Ilsa to appear; the final whistle of a train leaving for a new continent while the whole world reverberates with white noise and something too beautiful to acknowledge. There is both sound and silence and Sebastian Michaelis marvels at the quaint paradox of the two together. Seated inside the Jacinthe des Bois with a tome of Fitzgerald in his hand, the photographer raises his head a fraction of an inch before an attractive Parisian waitress with brown curls and a sultry smile greets him.

He orders an espresso since it’s half past three and there’s nothing else to do but embrace the dream-like quality of Paris, when everything is in motion but time is irrelevant.

She smiles prettily, with perfect white teeth and a plump lower lip before writing down her phone number in a very obvious manner and slipping it between the pages of _This Side of Paradise._ “À bientôt.” She flirts before walking away, so assured and confident in a way only French females can be. 

She’s a slip of a girl, a child and a woman all at once—and Sebastian rather likes her aesthetic.

It reminds him of Ciel.

Ciel, who is off drinking with people his own age and most likely ignoring the affliction Sebastian currently carries. _Has_ carried for the past five years though he’s never taken it into genuine consideration.

There have been romantic partners he’s enjoyed particularly well in the past but they were shallow, passing fancies. They have never been able to get under his skin like this but— _Ciel_.

Ciel feels so coolly elegant and so far gone that Sebastian, having always been the possessive sort, craves him with a hunger that is all at once unusual and expected. It’s like trying to capture stardust—a fruitless endeavor—but one that is now conceivable because Ciel is the night sky made physical and as an artist of the digital sort, this is the beauty he craves.

The waitress returns with his espresso and Sebastian pays her no heed because all he can see is porcelain—pale white—drowning peacefully in the wide, blue Atlantic.

“Monsieur?” Her voice is low and throaty—so unlike Ciel that it irritates him for that reason and that reason alone.

He places a crisp Euro on the table and nods.

Her smile wavers and Sebastian can see tears forming in her eyes (a pretty sight) but a decision has been made and she’s no more than a opaque image marring the perfection of his daydreams.

“Au revoir.”

 

* * *

 

Ciel is seated in a low lit bar of amber and dark gold with mahogany countertops and a bar made of black marble. It’s rich and heavy and so terribly, horribly _dull._

The entire block is upscale beauty but all he wants to do is lay on Sebastian’s lap, drink pink lemonade, and listen to whatever opera is playing on the older man’s gramophone. He’s 36 but seems to belong to another lifetime—perhaps the Roaring Twenties or even the late Victorian era because his manners can be so _perfect_ they become arousing.

One hand carelessly dangles over the glass decanter in front of him, forefinger tracing the rim because scotch burns.

A few other models titter around the area. They're boring and Lizzy isn’t here.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite nephew.” A voice of silk and carmine interrupts his revere, bringing a faint smirk to CIel’s lips because he knows who it is without even having to think twice.

“Madam Red.” He greets, gaze fixed on the wall of drinks in front of him. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Isn’t it?” She drops her purse (crimson Hermès) on the dark paneled bar, raises one lily white hand and the bartender comes rushing. “Kir Royal, darling.” She smiles and the hapless 20-something man nearly faints. There she stands in a v-neck slip dress that goes down to her ankles; it’s flimsy and red and so monstrously expensive that it’s almost comical how she wears it so carelessly. A rope of gold hangs around her neck and her chic, asymmetric bob has inspired legions of lesser women to copy the trend in a vain attempt to gain a fraction of Madam’s _je ne sais quoi._

“That’s all.” The Madam says, a hint of rich amusement in her voice when the bartender fails to move. A smile curves on her berry painted lips and she sits down on the black leather stool next to Ciel, crossing her legs and turning to face him. “Your side profile could use some work but then again, this isn’t a photoshoot.”

“Many happen to like this angle.”

“Many will say whatever you want for fear of your father.”

“How’s the baron?” Ciel asks but not at all unkindly. He knows Madam Red married Baron Burnett just for kicks and he loves his aunt, he does, but their relationship has always been a minefield of affection and affliction. “I haven’t seen him around lately.”

“Oh, he’s fine.” She opens her purse to pull out a gold-plated cigarette case and angles it towards him.

“You know I don’t smoke, Aunt Ann.”

Her smile widens before she selects a cigarette, lights it, and releases a rather seductive sigh followed by pale grey smoke that easily blends into the heady atmosphere. “Darling, you really ought to keep your emotions in check. That blank look may work on someone less attuned to your mannerisms but you forget—I’ve been holding you since the day you were born. I can always tell when you’ve acquired a new taste for something—or in this case, _someone._ ”

“I’m not smoking, my lungs are fine, tobacco rots your gums.”

“Hm.” She purses her lips, looking critically at Ciel before shrugging. “If you don’t want to tell me about him, fine. I am attending the Viscount Druitt’s soiree Thursday evening so I suppose I’l find out there.”

Ciel glares. “You’re a terrible gossip, Aunt Ann.”

“Yes, but when one is sleeping with Sebastian Michaelis and not telling…”

If Ciel is surprised, it hardly shows though Madam Red discerns a visible shift in mood—gone is the listless (and practiced) boredom and a faint look of panicked curiosity flits across his sapphire eyes before vanishing just as quickly. “Well.” He raises his scotch glass. “You’ve given me your statement—what’s the hypothesis?”

“Now, now darling—it’s up to _you_ to fill me in on all the juicy details.” She smirks as a flute of scarlet Kir Royal is presented before her. “You’ve been difficult to reach.” She takes a sip.

He shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“Mmh, indulge me.” She commands, licking stray drops of crème de cassis from her lower lip. “Fool me once, fool me twice.”

“This won’t be like last time.” He affirms, a hint of solemn finality ringing in his voice. “I refuse for it to be.”

“You can’t command the whole world, darling. Just the parts you own.” She gives a wink and Ciel knows his aunt—while mindful of her dear nephew—has never been one to pass up an innuendo whenever the opportunity arose.

With another sip of her drink, Madam Red rises and takes out a few folded Euros. “Stop by the Lounge sometime.”

“Why? So you can interrogate me on my sex life again?” He’s half-exasperated and somewhat annoyed but he’s never been one to refuse his favorite aunt.

And Madam Red, as if reading his thoughts, gives Ciel an indulgent smile before pressing one hand to his cheek. Her eyes, a deep shade of merlot that both mesmerizes and intimidates, communicates something far deeper than concern—it’s love, almost maternal love—though she’ll never be quite so sentimental. Instead, the woman who all of Paris knows retracts her hand and takes a step back, half-smile still in place. “Not quite. We serve strong liquor to minors.”

Against his better judgement, Ciel raises his own glass in her direction. “To liquor.” He decides and Madam Red follows.

“To liquor.”

It’s better, they both know, than the alternative.

 

* * *

 

The interior of the L’Office bistro looks like something that’s been overlaid with a vintage Instagram filter. From its dangling black garret chandeliers to its everest green walls mounted with mirrored decor, it is a precariously balanced blend between modernity and historical beauty—something only France is able to carry with grace and dignity. Seated at a corner booth with walnut tables and low amber lighting, Ciel dines on filet of sole, viciously stabbing the flaky white fish with an unnecessary amount of force.

“Someone’s in a mood tonight.” Sebastian’s voice holds a hint of condescension as he sits back in his leather backed seat, elegant and cold and so astoundingly beautiful. “Is the food too Austrian for your liking?”

“No.”

“Then the ambiance.”

“It’s fine.”

Sebastian arches a brow. “So I suppose it’s the company.”

“Why do you insist on psychoanalyzing every move I make?”

“Because you insist on making everything rather difficult for me to discern.”

“Fine.” Ciel puts down his fork. “How about this—guy walks into an advertising agency and sees a busty secretary he just can’t keep his hands off of. That secretary leads him on and drip dries him of every penny he owns before tossing him to the side like a used dishrag. Guy commits suicide because he can’t advertise his own death and no one in the world bothers to notice.”

“I can assure you I’m not in this for the money. Like you said, I’m not—what was it?—talented enough to be an escort.”

Ciel’s eyes narrow and he regards Sebastian with an expression of absolute disdain. “Is that all you got from this?”

“You’re too cowardly to take your own life.” Sebastian crosses one leg over the other, hands in his lap, looking every bit the mafioso don. “And you call _me_ melodramatic.”

“I’m 19. We’re into extremes.”

“Aren’t you a little hypocrite.”

“I have the excuse of youth. With you, it’s just tacky.” Ciel takes a sip of his ice water and lemon. “And no offense, but you’re kind of an egomaniac. I’m performing a public service by keeping you humble.”

“The blind leading the blind.” He muses, mahogany eyes glittering with a faint hint of amusement. They stare at each other with mild suspicion, each too cauterized to make the first move before Sebastian lifts his half empty wine glass and takes a sip of the blood red merlot. “You know I once worked with a man who informed me that in between every drink of scotch and every glass of champagne there was room for whiskey.”

“Was he an alcoholic?”

“No, he was in marketing—though I suppose the two are closely enough related.” Sebastian taps a pack of Marlboros against the palm of left hand, lazily content though his gaze is razor sharp. “The point was, before his divorce and subsequent remarriage, he informed me that there was only one way to take life in between bouts of inexplicable sorrow.”

“You think I’m depressed?”

“I think some whiskey and fur might do you good.” He lights the cigarette and allows the faint grey smoke to overwhelm the space between them, acting as the world’s partition until Ciel makes a decision. “You’re too charming for your own good and sometimes I want to press you against a stained glass window and fuck you senseless. I want to see the blues and reds of Neo-Gothic Paris flutter across your skin and I want to hear something other than your aggravated silence.”

Ciel glares. “I want to cover this fork in garlic sauce and then stab you in the eye with it. Repeatedly.”

Sebastian smiles. “Do you even know the effect you have?”

“I suppose you’ll say something sickeningly romantic if I don’t answer so I will, for the sake of my sanity and your dignity—yes, I do. It’s part of my mystique. I practice it in front of my mirror every morning before breakfast.”

“Your sarcasm is alluring.”

“Your compliments are cloying.”

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

“Your voice is intrusive.”

“You are mine.”

“Well,” Ciel shrugs, “for the time being.”

He ignores the blatantly primal look in Sebastian’s eye. “We’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

They return to Ciel’s master suite and somehow, against Sebastian’s wishes, they end up snuggled against one another, a mountain of pillows surrounding the both of them in the dark disquiet of night. A black and white film plays on the flat screen TV while Ciel sips peppermint hot chocolate from a wide, round mug. One of Sebastian’s arms is wrapped around his waist, Ciel’s head is pressed against the older man’s chest, their legs are tangled together and Sebastian’s free hand is tracing foreign patterns on the exposed skin of his hip.

It’s disturbingly domestic but Ciel pays it no heed. He’s tired and Sebastian is a comfortable body pillow.

“Do we have to shoot tomorrow?” His question is more of a childish demand that Sebastian say no but Yves Saint Laurent is on a deadline and as a result, so are they.

“You know the answer to that.” The dark haired man answers patiently, lips lightly pressing against the top of Ciel’s head. “Ten more days.”

“And then it’s champagne, oysters, and cocktails.”

“Disgusting, isn’t it?”

Ciel hiccups. “Mmh-hm.” He lifts the mug to his lips and, knowing full well that Sebastian is watching, licks the rim and then his lower lip. “Want to buy me a Cadillac? Vintage? We may as well go all out with this sugar daddy thing.”

“I’m too traditional for that. However, you would make a lovely ex-wife—just the type I’d divorce three or four times.”

“This is why I want to stab you in the eye with a fork. Repeatedly.”

“But you’ve taken out the garlic sauce which means you must be warming up to me.”

Ciel jerks his elbow back, effectively jabbing Sebastian’s lower abdomen but the man must work out because all Ciel hits is a solid wall of muscle. “Bullshit.”

“Perhaps next time I’ll be serving you creme brûlée in bed. Naked.”

“Why are you always so sexual?”

“Because it turns you on.” Sebastian murmurs, dipping his head down to place a few butterfly kisses on Ciel’s bare shoulder.

The younger man sighs. “If you make me spill this, I’ll kill you.”

“That a promise? I’m very into bondage.”

“Oh for the love of—“

 

* * *

 

**December 2, 2011**

“Oh that’s very lovely.” Angela nods prettily, arm hooked around Sebastian’s as they walk across the frosted streets of Boston—a perfect Christmas card photo if there ever was one. The street lamps are lit, the sky is a faded blue, and all the hustle and bustle of Yuletide filters around them like an old Christmas carol sung by Frank Sinatra himself. She and Sebastian are strolling the cobblestone streets because Angela felt like it and Sebastian was feeling rather indulgent.

She was such a lovely young conquest that he felt obligated to show her off every once in a while.

“Would you like it?” He glances down at the diamond pendant, one strung on a platinum chain, and can immediately envision Angela with her legs spread, head thrown back, and diamond glittering against her throat as she cried out his name. “I certainly do.”

She blushes. “Oh, it’s rather pricey—“

“I don’t care.”

“You’re a showoff.” She murmurs, cheeks pink with embarrassment.

“I can afford to be.”

“You sound like my brother.”

That catches Sebastian’s attention. “Brother?”

She nods, vaguely interested in what he’s saying but now focused on the pendant again. “Yes. He was born a few minutes before me but behaves like he’s much older.”

“A twin.”

“Yes. He raised me.” She begins to walk towards the entrance, arm still linked with his.

“After your parents passed away?” He knows she’s an orphan. A wealthy, beautiful orphan—but an orphan nonetheless.

Angela nods. “The fire decimated our family home.”

Sebastian files this information away for later.

 

* * *

 

**May 4, 2016**

My beloved,

I know this letter will find you in good health but I do hope you take the time to respond to it.

Time freezes and stops when I’m not with you and I can’t think of anyone else except you. Tell me, do you miss me too? I remember you, coming inside me, arms wrapped around me, telling me you _loved_ me. I know I heard you say that, I could hear you whisper it into my ear. We’re been separated for far too long, lover, but I’ve returned to you now.

Please don’t leave me alone again. I’ve thought about our reunion for so long but in my mind, we never parted. You were right beside me everyday, telling me not to give up because those terrible surgeons with their white smocks and terrible jewelry couldn’t keep me there forever. They tied me down and made me sleepy—they endeavored to make me forget you.

But I shan’t. I refuse to. You are the darkness and I am your light and I will guide you back to me. Back to _this._

I will see you soon and I will love, love, love you again.

 

Yours,

_Angela_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yaaas, Madam Red makes her debut! (And yes, the “guy walks into advertising” line was a reference to Mad Men! Seb is such a Don Draper. And the “I know this letter will find you in good health” is yet another Hamilton reference LOL) 
> 
> Thank you for all the sweet reviews last chapter! See? It did make me update faster! ^-^


	6. divine presence

On the precipice of bliss, when the world fades out and time itself becomes irreverent as sleep takes over one’s body, Ciel Phantomhive jolts awake to find himself staring at the vast emptiness of his private hotel suite. The darkness is blinding and it takes a moment for his sapphire eyes to adjust but once they have, he scowls at the intangible nothingness stretched out before him and crosses his arms with indignation.

He’s always been able to fall asleep; it was one of his favorite hobbies when the world became too much and the people, utterly intolerable.

Frowning, Ciel rolls onto his side and glares at the diaphanous white curtains, billowing gently with the cool Parisian breeze. It reminds him of his first night with Sebastian, when that arrogant fucker stood there like a king, cigarette between his lips and lazy smirk decorating his mouth. It’s been four days since they’ve begun this strange liaison—this _not quite_ relationship that’s supposed to be about sex, fulfillment, and release. He enjoys the older man’s company because he’s a gentleman (when he’s not being a prick) and there are certain benefits to having such a Lothario as a bed partner.

And he makes fantastic hot chocolate that’s rich, creamy, and warms Ciel from the inside out, starting with the frozen mass where his heart was meant to reside. It makes him sleepy and sentimental. It makes him want to _talk_ to Sebastian even though conversation is pointless in the grand scheme of things.

It’s not like they’re ever going to see each other again.

When Ciel ends something, he ends it for good and Sebastian Michaelis _cannot_ be the exception.

He had an exception once. A handsome, dark, seductive exception who was all at once brazen and strangely alluring. And though he shattered Ciel’s perceptions of the world, he taught him a valuable lesson—people were fickle and love was immaterial. Not that he could say his feelings towards Sebastian even bordered on love—that notion would be nonsensical because he is a Phantomhive and they don’t _do_ love.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Ciel brandishes away that gossamer image of this carnelian eyed ghost and struggles to keep his composure. Sebastian has a way of getting under his skin (whether by choice or coincidence, Ciel can’t be sure) and if it weren’t for his very talented mouth and equally impressive body, this affair would have ended days ago. Might not have even continued beyond the first night.

This is the only truth he can live with and for now, it’s enough.

 

* * *

 

**Three hours beforehand:**

Between lazy, sensuous kisses, Ciel finds Sebastian’s skilled hand wrapped around his length as the two curl up into one another as the final credits of _Bringing Up Baby_ play on the flat screen. Ciel is half awake but his body responds to Sebastian’s touch with soft sighs and mews and his own hands grip the bed sheets. He presses himself closer to the solid figure behind him and seeps into the contented familiarity that has been established between them. It seems so very common for little kisses to be given and playful remarks to be said; it’s as if they’ve known each other for years, even when the conversation is brand new.

With the pressure building in his lower belly and the gentle flutter of his heart, Ciel arches his back and sighs prettily when release breaks through the foggy haze of his mind and he gives a soft, wanton cry of _yes._

There is no spoken contract between them when Sebastian drops a kiss onto his temple and Ciel cuddles closer, exhaustion taking over him even as he hears Sebastian’s faint chuckle and soft whisper of good night.

 

In the middle of the night, when Ciel is fast asleep, Sebastian jolts awake and sees that the frail boned boy is curled up right next to him. Ciel’s arm is thrown over Sebastian’s chest and he’s somehow clambered halfway on top of him. The boy’s rosy pink cheek is pressed against Sebastian’s heart, utterly content and fast asleep.

He looks pale…mysterious—like a lily drowned under water.

The image forces an odd sensation of warmth to blossom throughout his body.

If he could blush—if he could love—he would love the boy in his arms.

 

Sebastian wakes a second time and, without moving, without thinking, drinks in the image of Ciel. The boy is a nepheliad, cloud pale and beautiful, but these days, Sebastian is biased. There is a little bit of poetry in Ciel—not anything particularly sweet but the artist in him enjoys the coldness of Ciel’s character, how he is stardust and efflorescence, so intangible but _here,_ lying in his arms.

And dear god, he cannot _think_. Slender Aphrodite has overcome him, with tender longing for this boy.

Ciel warned him that this tryst would involve no emotion and Sebastian is _not_ emotionally attached—not at all.

He is simply infatuated. Enamored. Spellbound. After all, how could he not be? With this moon kissed violet clinging to his heart, Ciel is bruised and dark blue and so achingly alone. What could be is now present and Sebastian is torn between indecision and unrest. How long could he keep this sparrow blue? How long before resentment grows and bitterness takes the place of affection? It was so difficult to be in love. It was so simple having an affair.

Affairs lasted for as long as white roses bloomed and for Sebastian, they’d always been enough.

_So why did Ciel have to be the exception?_

With one pale forefinger, Sebastian traced the curve of Ciel’s cheek and hesitated, for half a second, before he gently disengaged himself from his muse’s warm body. Softly, tenderly, with this boy in his arms, Sebastian laid him back down and covered his body with the satin sheets pooled about his ankles.

And just as the moon reached the center of the sky, Sebastian vanished through the en suite doors right as Ciel’s eyes opened.

 

* * *

 

“Charles Grey you incorrigible scoundrel!” Lizzy shouts, throwing anything and everything she can at him. “How _dare_ you!”

“How dare _I?_ _You’re_ the one that’s overreacting and—stop throwing things at me! That’s a $50,000 Ming you just _destroyed!_ ” He doesn’t actually give a shit about the ancient Ming vase that’d been in his family for the past two centuries but the flying porcelain splinters (combined with his newly polished cherrywood floor) make for perfect projectile accuracy and he doesn’t want to see Lizzy hurt—even when she currently hates him. “Will you settle down? My god, are all women this infuriating?”

“I’m infuriating? Well _fine!_ I’ll leave and then you can go back to romancing every single person with a double X chromosome!”

“For the love of—I wasn’t _romancing_ her, do you think I’d be _that_ cheap? Red roses and champagne? Lizzy, that reeks of desperation. _She_ was trying to seduce _me._ ”

Lizzy ceases her assault for a brief moment, enough to brush a stray curl from her eyes and glare at him with all the intensity of a thousand emerald suns. “Bullshit. A beautiful, gorgeous violet eyed model just sees you and decides to seduce you? In broad daylight? Ha.”

“First of all, she was _not_ that pretty. That girl looked like all the color had been drained from her hair and face and second of all, yes.” He’s a wealthy, charismatic Parisian bachelor—what are women _supposed_ to do around him? “Just because I find you interesting doesn’t mean other women can’t still want to have me for themselves.”

“Wonderful. You see yourself as a piece of toffee.”

He gives her a charming, placating grin. “I am very sweet.”

“Humph.” She crosses her arms, pink lips in a fixed pout, and right hand clutching at a marble bust of Cleopatra. “You don’t look at me the way you do other girls.”

This surprises Grey. “What are you going on about?”

“You don’t look at me.”

“Of course I don’t.” He scoffs at the absurdity of it all. “You’re already beautiful, anyone can see that. I want to _know_ you. Your whole world is a pearl, you know that? Every time I’m around you I feel as if I ought to say something exceptional but sometimes, I can’t think of anything to say.”

“That’s news to me.” Lizzy breathes out but her voice is tight and she looks torn between tears and laughter.

“You…I can’t look at you for very long, actually.” He confesses. “It’d be like looking at the sun. I hate you for that. I tell you all the things I can’t tell anyone else.”

“And you think I don’t?” She looks lost but golden, with the sunlight streaming in and all the world quiet as she addresses these next few words to the silvery haired man standing before her. “I’d like for today to stretch on forever so we can always be wonderful.”

The cacophony of sound that seemed to resonate with such passion minutes prior has now dissipated into nothing. The world holds its breath as Grey regards Lizzy with a very peculiar look and then, without presumption or haste, gives her a smile that is rarer than all the jewels of the underworld.

“Don’t you know?” He chides, smile still on his lips. “You’re always wonderful.”

 

* * *

 

William T. Spears disliked Sebastian Michaelis on principle and only thinly tolerated the photographer as a favor for an incident he’d rather not mention. But, as a gentleman of propriety, dignity, and singular focus, Will also had a tendency to be meticulous—very, _very_ meticulous in both work and life—he was a perfectionist of the highest order. As such, when he received a telephone call from a criminal defense lawyer named Knox two days ago, Will had spent quite a few hours piecing together a possible theory that now appeared highly probable.

He’d met Angela Blanc a few times—once at a charity soiree hosted by that philandering American actor named Clooney and the other time at Michaelis’s gallery show in late 2011. Both times he’d been unnerved—there was something… _misplaced_ about the girl, with her soft voice, shy smile, and razor sharp glares. It truly was not in his nature to pry but the lingering doubt sunk deep into his bones and before Will knew it, he had a semi-illegally obtained profile of Angela Blanc lying on his desk and the portrait of her angelic veneer dissipated as quickly as a desert mirage.

Born to wealthy tech industrialists in Valbonne, France, Angela Blanc led a charmed life as the younger sister to the distinguished academic, Ashfield “Ash” Landers Blanc, and spent her summers in Paris, her winters in New York, her autumns in Switzerland, and her springs in Denmark. At age of 11, she lost both her parents in a tragic fire that destroyed their ancestral family home and was instead raised by her brother and aunt in a three story penthouse apartment on Avenue Montaigne.

A socialite girl living a 20th century jet set life that simply didn’t exist outside of Hollywood anymore.

But that was before William discovered the medical prescriptions, doctor visits, and schizophrenic personality that the Blancs had tried desperately to hide in an effort to maintain their gilded French facade. At the age of 16 Angela was committed by her own brother to Halifax Hospital in Manchester, UK for mental illness and from there on out, Will shifted to a clinically analytic perspective because the madness of an insane woman could only be surpassed by the inhumane treatment she received at Halifax. Electrical shock therapy combined with solitary confinement and brutal, almost barbaric, forms of “reprimands” left Angela in a state of repressed anxiety. After a suicide attempt in 2009, just three days before her 17th birthday, she was released from Halifax by the brother who put her there—but the inconsistencies were obvious.

Angela disappeared December 2, 2009.

Ash Landers Blanc signed the release form February 15, 2010.

The trail was practically nonexistent though Will managed to discover a sliver of information from Knox, the criminal defense lawyer whose frequent partying was now actually worth a promotion. Between January 5 and March 23, 2010 a pale skinned, lavender haired woman whose description bordered on grotesque—emaciated, bruised, bloodied, weary, and near death were the adjectives most frequently used—turned up at St. Cecelia’s, a convent in Rydzyna, Poland.

Seven months later Sebastian Michaelis began a six month long affair with a woman named Angela Blanc.

 

* * *

 

“Darling, I love you, but if you smoke that damned cigarette near me again, I’ll kill you.”

Sebastian pauses, glances up, and sees Ciel toying away on his iPad, barely paying attention to what was going on around him.

“Is that message intended for me or was it just a general comment?” Sebastian takes another deep inhale of his Marlboro. It’s a Saturday and they’re seated in his penthouse with the ceiling skylights and afternoon sun, each preoccupied but so very conscious of the other.

“Movie.” Ciel responds blandly, eyes fixed on the black and white screen.

“Arthouse?”

“Not exactly.” He hits pause. “A colleague of mine is a foreign actor, this is one of his few English speaking films.”

“Anyone I know?”

Ciel rolls his eyes. “You know Alois Trancy?”

“Yes. I shot him.” He pauses for dramatic effect but the boy knows him too well and merely regards Sebastian with an expectant expression and slightly curious eyebrow raise. “You’re really no fun.”

“I’m loads of fun. You’re just predictable.” Ciel clarifies matter-of-factly, moving so that he was now laying across the snow white cabriole. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Trancy’s been in rehab since 2015.”

“Cocaine?”

“That’s what all the newspapers say.”

Now it’s Sebastian’s turn to wait, legs crossed and aura commanding—a dark king wanting his due.

Ciel, after a moment, puts down his iPad and yields. “I’m trusting that you’re intelligent enough to keep your mouth shut on this subject matter. I have enough blackmail to get you rerouted to Alaska so you can spend the rest of you days photographing igloos.”

“Is that a threat?”

“My god, I _told_ you—I hate cliches. Don’t make me say it.” He wrinkles his nose.

Sebastian smirks. “Fine. We’ve reached an agreement then.”

Ciel’s expression is guarded but after a brief internal debate, he tosses his iPad across his lap and crosses his arms, eyes fixed on the coffee table. “He’s in rehab because he can’t go anywhere else. Alois got in deep with this guy a few years back and he hasn’t left him alone. Abusive relationships are a one way street. You can’t escape just by wanting to.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m going to assume that question’s rhetorical and not answer it.” Ciel glares. “He began dating that actress Irene Diaz in 2014—“

“Gender fluid.” Sebastian muses. He’s mildly surprised, Trancy always struck him as deliberately masochistic. Knowing that he was involved in a semi-stable relationship—for however brief a period of time—is amusing to say the least.

“She was more caretaker and babysitter than girlfriend but he stopped drinking and partying so much whenever he was around her. She got him to lay off the coke and get at least seven hours of sleep so who knows—maybe a mother is just what he needed.”

“I certainly hope that’s not what _you_ need.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The two lock eyes and Sebastian wants to devour Ciel whole. “I want a butler.”

“That,” Sebastian chuckles, finally rising from his seat, “can be arranged… _my lord_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “He looks pale, mysterious—like a lily…” — modified reference to Virginia Woolf’s most famous novel, ‘Mrs. Dalloway’. (I always do feel bad for poor Septimus.) 
> 
> \- “And dear god, he cannot think. Slender Aphrodite…” — modified reference to Sappho’s stanza, “sweet mother I cannot weave—slender Aphrodite has over come me/ with longing for a girl.” 
> 
> A/N: Halifax Hospital is a product of my imagination and does not exist. Although Manchester does have quite a few abandoned asylums that are rather frightening to behold…(oh and I know some of you will point out that Angela claimed Ash was her twin brother but don’t take Angela’s word for gold—she’s an unreliable narrator at best.) 
> 
> In case you can’t tell, I was reading a lot of Sappho as I was writing this LOL stars, flowers, moonlight, doomed romance…all interrelated one way or another! This story is turning out to be MUCH longer than I expected but I’m still hoping this’ll clock in under 15 chapters. (Psst, can anyone guess who Grey and Lizzy are talking about?)


	7. two lovers

“Hello and who the hell is this?” Ronald Knox mumbled sleepily into his Blackberry because shit, it was 3 fucking AM and he was _tired._ On his left a pretty maroon haired girl was sprawled on her back, one arm covering her breasts and the other thrown over the covers, while Ronald took in her sensuous curves and flushed lips.

“St. Cecelia’s. I need access to the visitor’s logs and their most recent medical transactions beginning December 2009.”

“…Mr. Spears?”

“I’ve just gotten a fixed reading on Miss Blanc’s current location. She’s staying at the University De Caen hospital and will most likely remain there until she can refuel and resupply herself with all her proper medication, though I doubt that’ll take her longer than three days.”

“Uh, Mr. Spears it’s 3 in the morning here and—“

“I need you to get to the office and pull for me all the files we have on Ashfield Blanc. I’m currently stuck in Shenzhen and my computer access is restricted. The most I can do is give you a general outline of Mr. Blanc’s activities since February 2010 but they’re inconsistent. Why sign your younger sister, a diagnosed schizophrenic with psychotic tendencies, out of the hospital after she’s escaped? Why not search for her? Why allow her to get involved with a notorious philanderer whilst knowing just how fragile her mindset really is?”

Ronald heaved an inward sigh. _So much for sleep,_ he grumbled internally before dragging himself out of bed. “I can probably get you Ash Blanc’s info quicker than Angela’s. Either she’s spending cash or the lady really knows how to pull a disappearing act. Could probably give David Blaine a run for his money.”

“Indeed.”

 _Aaaaand he’s got no idea who that is._ He could almost picture his boss’s totally blank face and unamused expression. Ronald rolled his eyes. “How’re things with Michaelis anyhow? Is he keeping outta the press?”

“No.” Will’s voice was even but Ronald knew better. The slightly pinched tone and mild hints of passive aggressive frustration was pretty much Will’s way of screaming “fuck” at the top of his lungs.

“Ah. Well—good luck with reigning him in.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated Knox.”

“That wasn’t—“

The line went dead seconds later right as Ronald was gathering his briefcase and jacket. Turning back around to look at the still sleeping girl, he felt a twinge of regret for having to take off so suddenly but—Will _was_  his boss and christ, when did he, Ronald Knox, ever care about one night stands?

 _I’m losing it._ He rubbed his eyes. _Not even 30 and I am fucking losing it._

 

* * *

 

Ciel hadn’t meant to overhear Sebastian’s conversation with whoever the fuck Will was but—it wasn’t his fault that he’d gotten thirsty in the middle of the night and Sebastian just happened to be on the phone with someone.

“—I told you I’m not leaving Paris until the campaign shoot’s done.” Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, sounding more agitated than Ciel thought possible. Sebastian Michaelis, the master of cool, looked like he was ready to punch a wall. “And I thought you said you were taking care of it?” A pause and then Sebastian scoffed. “If you think I’m going to go into hiding simply because your _source_ thinks it’s necessary—the girl is _mentally unbalanced,_ I hardly suspect she’s capable of executing schemes similar to that of Sir Bertram Ramsay.”

Ciel quirked a brow. He didn’t know Sebastian was a student of WWII military history.

“In any case we only have five more days before I'm stateside again. I doubt she’s going to follow me to New York, Will— _yes,_ I didn’t think she was going to chase me to Paris but that was a miscalculation on my part. She always mooned over the city while we were together and I should’ve expected that this would be the first place she’d turn up after leaving Valbonne.”

 _She?_ Ciel snickered. God, if that man had a fangirl stalking him then Ciel wasn’t holding back—he was gonna lord this shit over him for the next five days.

“Yeah.” Sebastian sighed, exhaling a plume of smoke ( _that fucking fuck,_ Ciel seethed, _he promised to only smoke outside_ ) while staring out at the Parisian skyline. “I’ll take that into consideration but right now I’ve got to deal with a little problem of my own.” Before Ciel could react, Sebastian turned around and locked eyes with him, a derisive half-smile on his beautiful mouth while Ciel struggled to maintain a neutral expression.

He felt like a twelve year old who’d got caught sneaking cookies before suppertime.

“Thanks Will.” Sebastian continued. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hung up the phone and Ciel, never one to back down from a challenge, left his hiding spot behind the double doors.

Coming into the blue soaked room, the young model noticed an empty glass of whiskey on the windowsill as well as an ashtray with two cigarette stubs. Apparently, Sebastian had been up for some time.

“Paris PD informing you that they’ve got a deranged stalker on their hands?” He asked casually.

The photographer’s smile was sharp—almost reproachful—as he leaned against the wall. “Not quite.”

Ciel’s eyes narrowed. “Are you gonna tell me or…?”

“I don’t really need to.” He replied blithely, as if Ciel had just asked him what he thought of tonight’s weather. “In any case you need your beauty sleep. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Ciel crossed his arms. “I’ve been known to function on four cups of coffee and a shot of Hennessy so don’t give me this babysitting bullshit. If something’s come up that’s going to interfere with the way you work then I need to know. This is the YSL evening wear campaign, not some editorial photoshoot for some half-assed fashion magazine. If you fuck up now I’ll bury you.”

A gleam of irritation flashed across Sebastian’s carmine eyes and the line of his mouth hardened. Individually they stood their ground—Ciel, obstinate and headstrong, and Sebastian, elusive as the winter sun. There seemed to be a note of finality hanging in the air, as if they were being sliced open for auction and the only buyers they could find were each other.

Something in the back of Ciel’s mind whispered that he wanted to know the truth from Sebastian’s lips not just for the sake of this campaign but because he _wanted_ to be confided in. To have someone tell him their heart’s secrets because for the first time in a long time, Ciel felt a softness being pressed upon his heart and while it was not love, it certainly felt like something close to it. “Well?” Ciel ventured when Sebastian still said nothing. _Tell me. Don’t make me regret this—say something,_ ** _anything_** _—_

“Nothing will detract from the quality of this photoshoot.” He answered at last, left hand clutching his cell phone and it angered Ciel because he was still standing there, so indifferent and calm and _cold._

For a split second, almost as if Sebastian had read his thoughts, their eyes met and Ciel wondered if it was possible to hate and love at the exact same time. A hollowness enveloped him and the insincerity that now perfumed the air choked Ciel’s lungs the way heartbreak would if he’d actually felt anything. “Good.” Ciel cleared his throat, jaw clenched as his fingers pressed bruises into his arms. “Wouldn’t want to damage Saint Laurent’s reputation with a crappy picture now would we?”

“Certainly not.” Sebastian glanced out the window and then back at his phone. “It’s late.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Okay.” He could let his go, Ciel told himself, he could forget this happened. After all, _he himself_ was the one who made the stipulation that _nothing_ could come of this affair. Just sex and the occasional dinner and here Sebastian was, acting like a good dog and obeying his commands and shouldn’t Ciel be _happy_ that they were so detached? That nothing could ever tie him down again?

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Sebastian walk down the hallway that led to the master suite—and then he turned left, to the spare bedroom adjacent from the painting of Madame de Pompadour. _Of course he’s not sleeping with you—he’s got better things to do tonight with a girl who’s name you don’t even know._ That little voice of self-doubt had transmuted itself into a vicious snarl that had all but paralyzed Ciel where he stood. _Forget it—and forget him. It’s not worth it._

_It never is._

 

Ciel didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, curled under the satin covers of his king sized bed when he heard the door open and then close. Evenly paced footsteps echoed quietly towards him while Ciel hugged his knees to chest, squeezing his eyes shut. He could pretend to be asleep—but what the fuck was the bastard doing here in the first place? Did he forget something? His wallet? Keys? Room card? Silently, Ciel held his breath before he felt the bed dip and realized, with a spark of horrified delight, that Sebastian was sitting down next to him.

 _Leave, leave, leave,_ **_leave._ **

_Stay, stay, stay,_ **_stay._ **

Fuck. Ciel bit his lip, willing his heartbeat to even out because _he didn’t care._ This wasn’t the place for him to care, to long for Sebastian to press his body against his smaller one—not for sex but just because it felt _nice._ It felt safe, knowing there was a solid wall of muscle behind him, knowing that Sebastian’s arm was wrapped around his waist and the solid warmth of his body would chase away the nightmares that frequented his subconscious every night he fell asleep. He wasn’t lying when he said he could function on four cups of coffee and a shot of hard liquor—he’d done it before, multiple times, when the dreams became too much and he felt an odd need to step out of his own skin because he was itching all over.

From across the bed, he felt Sebastian move closer so that he wasn’t quite touching Ciel but could have if he wanted to.

“Her name is Angela Blanc.” He murmured and Ciel had to remind himself to keep breathing, steady breaths in and out as he remained curled underneath the hotel duvet. “I met her in Poland five years ago. October 2011.” He paused and Ciel could feel his hesitance and faintly wondered when he’d become so attuned to Sebastian’s body. “It didn’t mean anything but I won’t deny that I was momentarily captivated by the sheer fragility of her. She was like glass and I knew I could break her if I wasn’t careful. Maybe that’s why I stayed for so long.”

Behind closed eyes, Ciel could almost conjure up the image of some glass spun girl with flowing hair and wide eyes, looking for all the world like a skittish fawn in need of corruption. No wonder Sebastian wanted her.

“I hadn’t realized the truth behind that fragility. And here,” Sebastian let out a rueful chuckle, “I was blinded by greed. I ignored the warning signs—her contradictory stories, how she seemed to have no past. The way she looked at clocks and timed herself in the shower—she’d been in a mental institution since she was 16, 17. I can’t say. All I knew was that I wanted to brand her—claim her—because she was _exquisite._ I wanted to consume her. Everything she touched seemed to inspire something otherworldly in my perception of art and photography...I used her for six months before I tired of her.” Sebastian’s voice grew lower. “Keep your eyes closed Ciel,” he breathed and Ciel was surprised by his proximity—he could feel Sebastian’s cool breath permeating through the covers, could almost envision how his raven colored hair was falling in front of his eyes. “Keep your eyes closed and think that I don’t care. Hate me, despise me—otherwise she’ll bruise that moonflower skin of yours. Angela’s always been a jealous girl, forever wanting what she can’t have and right now,” Sebastian gently tugged the duvet down, “ _I_ belong to _you._ ” He traced one finger down the younger boy’s cheek and Ciel fought the urge to roll right over and cling onto him—hell, he was having a hard time _breathing_ because what the absolute _fuck_ did this mean?

Ciel didn’t _do_ emotions, he couldn’t understand them very well and even when he did, his hands were clumsy and the feelings he was handed were often too big for him to hold.

“Goodnight Ciel.” Sebastian pressed a kiss (or was it a kiss?) to his right temple and that’s when Ciel lost it.

 _One night,_ he promised himself with false conviction because at that moment, his eyes were already open and he found that his hand had latched onto Sebastian’s wrist before he could even process what was going on.

“Stay.” The word slipped past his lips without permission as he gazed sleepily into Sebastian’s confused carnelian eyes. “Just until morning.”

“Ciel—“

“I’m tired.” He urged silently, praying silently to Venus, Aphrodite—whoever was out there—to just let him have _this._ He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to piece together the reality that had just been handed to him until the sun was in the sky and he could pretend again.

The vaudeville could wait.

And, judging by the shadows under Sebastian’s eyes, Ciel knew he needed rest too. “Come on,” he tried again, gently tugging on Sebastian’s wrist, “I’m comfy to hold onto.”

Sebastian’s eyes softened and Ciel looked down. _Don’t blink, don’t think, don’t—_

“Alright.” Gently, almost as if he was afraid Ciel would change his mind, Sebastian slipped under the covers though he remained a good six inches away from Ciel until the duvet settled around them. He hesitated. “Is this—“

“Hold me.” Ciel ordered quietly, grabbing Sebastian’s hand so that it pressed onto his stomach. Bit by bit, Sebastian moved closer until Ciel could feel the solid warmth of Sebastian’s chest pressing against his back. He pressed himself closer, selfishly taking in Sebastian’s warmth and that fleeting, inexplicable sensation that he was home.

It wasn’t long before his eyes closed and the exhaustion of interrupted sleep came over him. Quietly the two slept, one holding the other, against a backdrop of blue until the sun rose again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sir Bertram Ramsay: admiral of the Royal Navy. Ramsay was responsible for organizing the Dunkirk evacuation in 1940 as well as the planning of Operation Neptune (AKA, the Normandy landings) in 1944. 
> 
> A/N: My gosh I am so sorry for this delay (and for the shortness of this chapter) but like I said, I haven't forgotten about Yayo and my muse is BACK. 
> 
> (Psst, that girl Ronald was sleeping with? Mey-Rin.) 
> 
> Reviews make my day :)


	8. in secret

Angela liked the rain. She liked it very much in fact; the drizzle and interspaced taps of water dripping onto rooftops and windows, how it cooled the earth and gauzed everything in a silvery mist of romantic possibility. In truth, Angela loved the rain. It was cleansing and calming and made all the lights glow with cinematic magic; in the rain, cities like New York could fill you with a sense of wakeful longing and the little coffee shops who sold nothing more than black espressos could, for the moment, be beautiful.

Sebastian had once taken her to a little coffee shop in Market Square when it began to rain. The sky turned to an overcast grey and the concrete streets, lined with monuments of limestone and marble, glistened under the hazy afternoon eye of spring rain. Even in March it was cold in Poland so Angela had been dressed in an overcoat and high heeled boots when Sebastian suddenly swept her clean off her feet, making her laugh as he made a show of carrying her to their shared penthouse just a few blocks away. It’d been one of the happiest times in Angela’s life and she’d been so pleasantly surprised by how much she liked his company—so much so that she’d even made an effort to eat those little white pills on the days they were supposed to be eaten. Sebastian thought they were contraceptives and Angela hadn’t corrected him.

Hadn’t told him that she would sooner light herself on fire than take anything that could prevent their baby from being born. They’d been together five months and Angela knew she wanted a baby. Having a baby was natural wasn’t it? She could have a baby and they’d be very happy; she would dress in dark blue tea skirts and make him coffee and eggs in the morning, their baby on one hip as Sebastian got ready for the day. He would kiss her goodbye and leave for work but he would always, _always_ come back at 5.

Yet even through her haze of fantasy she noticed something very peculiar about the way he would sometimes look at her—as if he were contemplating something far beyond her comprehension. It made Angela nervous and when she was nervous she needed her brother. Except Ash wasn’t in Rydzyna and if he were, he would force her onto a flying machine and take her far away from everything she had. It was why she needed to have a baby because couples stayed together when they had babies. Mama and papa stayed together because of Ash and herself. Uncle Philippe, who had wanted to leave Aunt Annemarie, stayed with her because of their baby, Léa, and they were happy—even if Aunt Annemarie was always sleepy and Uncle Philippe came home very late and always smelled of vermouth.

So Angela prayed very hard each and every night that their baby might come—and lord knows it wasn’t for lack of trying. Sebastian had an insatiable appetite and Angela was perfectly alright when he shoved her against their cream colored walls, her cheek pressed against the cool plaster as he pushed into her from behind. He liked pinning her wrists above her head and he didn’t let her kiss him very often but she liked the way he made her feel when he was buried deep inside her, when she could count his thrusts and hear the grit in his voice when he called her name.

Sometimes, they read Proust together. Him sitting on the sofa and Angela curled up like a cat on top of him, cheek pressed against the crook of his neck.

“What’s something you always want to remember?” Angela asked him one night, a plate of madeleines on the coffee table and a teacup pressed in one hand. “A memory you simply can’t bear to part with?”

“What a thing to wonder,” Sebastian chuckled, one hand stroking her loose hair, “after all, isn’t all memory fleeting? Intangible. Inescapable. I don’t choose to cling onto anything that can’t be seen by a wider audience.”

She frowned. “Isn’t there anything you cherish particularly well?”

He chuckled and dropped a kiss atop her head. “I suppose not. You see, I’m rather conceited about the whole concept of time and must rely on you, madame, to provide me with any depth.”

She quieted after that and Sebastian continued reading but really, it was all so _confusing._ What did he mean? He was always so intelligent—so well spoken and clever and cultured, just like Ash. It made Angela’s head spin at times because his words were so pretty. In fact, it wasn’t until he got lost that Angela realized how important she must be to him.

She needed to find him—to _search_ for him—and to keep him.

 _You, madame, provide me with depth._ That was what he said.

She was a good girl and she took care of the things that belonged to her. So it was with a lovely smile that Angela moved her purse to her lap, allowing an elderly grandmother to take the seat next to her. “Are you going somewhere very far?” Angela inquired as the metro began to move again.

“Just visiting my granddaughter, dear.” The old woman smiled. She had rosy cheeks and hair like a cloud. She looked like the type who would be content in a little house in the countryside, the smell of fresh cut flowers following her around and a basket of knitting that still needed to be done resting by the fireside.

Angela liked her.

“What about you?” The grandmother asked, folding her plump hands in her lap. “What does Paris hold for a lovely girl such as yourself?”

“Oh you’re very kind.” She demurred politely, thankful for her new clothes. “And I’m going to visit someone too. He’s been gone a very long time and I miss him terribly.”

“Ah, you poor dear.” She patted Angela’s arm. “His heart must be breaking to pieces if he’s left someone such as yourself behind.”

“He hasn’t left me behind.” Angela cut in sharply, jerking her arm away. “I’ve never been left behind. I’m going to see him right now.”

“Of course dear—“

“He misses me, I _know_ he misses me. I’ve written him lots of letters and I dream about him every night.” She leaned closer to the grandmother, who now had a slight look of concern on her round moon face. “I’ll tell you something that no one, not even he, knows. And it’s something important because he _can’t_ leave me. If he leaves me he’ll die and I can’t let that happen. We’re going to have a baby very soon.”

She pressed her hand against her stomach, the very image of a young mother-to-be.

“My dear, how wonderful!” The grandmother exclaimed as she patted Angela’s hand. “How far along are you?”

“We’ll have more than one of course.” Angela continued, ignoring the question at hand. “A boy and a girl. Like my brother and I—two children but they’ll be _ours._ ” She murmured before sinking into a brief silence that lasted half a measure before she glanced up with sudden, renewed vigor. Amethyst flames danced in her eyes as she glared unseeingly at the aged woman next to her. “I like children very much, did you know? I love them. I love them _so much._ ” She leaned back slightly and smiled again. “ _So, so_ much.”

 

* * *

 

It was no surprise when Frances Midford née Phantomhive stormed into his hotel room without preamble (or key) one clear Wednesday morning. He had just finished getting dressed and was about to prepare breakfast when he heard the sharp, distinct click of her Louboutin stilettos. Fifteen seconds later, she appeared before him dressed in a slim cut white pencil skirt, grey silk blouse, and a strand of cool Japanese sea pearls wrapped round her pale throat. Even in anger she held a sort of absolute iciness that was both intimidating and reserved—and William T. Spears, corporate lawyer, knew all too well why she was here.

“Explain yourself.” The matriarch of the Midford family demanded, chin raised and jade eyes cold. She stood in the middle of the hotel’s minimalist parlor with its white furnishings and thousand dollar paintings because, despite his austerity, he _did_ have a reputation to maintain the Four Seasons offered an efficient staff and well-maintained privacy. And if it just so happened that the Midfords owned a majority share in their parent company—then so be it.

“Frances.” Will nodded in greeting and if his presumption seemed surprising then it ought to be known that William T. Spears, exemplar of law and order, and Frances Phantomhive attended the same law school and shared, oddly enough, numerous professors during their three years together. Upon graduation, William was snatched up by an eager DLA Piper while Frances was employed by Grimsby & Proctor, a law firm and subsidiary of the Funtom conglomerate. In all, the two shared a hospitable—if controlled—relationship, and it was with this flood of information William kept in mind that he allowed for the usage of her first name. 

Frances Midford, however, thought differently. “Mr. Spears.” She enunciated icily in a tone that brokered no room for argument. “In what world did you suppose it permissible to keep me ill-informed on the welfare of my daughter and nephew all the while knowing that there was a distinct possibility of bodily harm if you failed to do so?” And though Will was in fact four inches taller than Frances’s 5’10 inches, he never underestimated the force her power and gravitas could lend to height.

“Frances—“

“If you felt the need to keep in contact with that Michaelis character then the least you could have done was inform me of the coming storm.”

“At the time it seemed unnecessary,” he replied cooly, readjusting his glasses, “there was only a direct link to Michaelis and I believed the matter could have been contained had he followed my instructions.” Will let out a long suffering sigh. “I suppose that was too much to ask of him.”

“With his slovenly appearance I should think so.” Frances crossed her arms.

He gave a slight nod of agreement. “Nevertheless I hadn’t expected this sort of fallout to occur.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Honestly, it would have been simpler had he left Paris when I’d advised him to do so.”

“He might have if the Paris you alluded to was Miss Hilton.” She returned dryly.

“That would be the case with any sane man, Frances.” He readjusted his glasses again. “In any case I’m to fly to Paris myself in two days time to personally close the case, even though it’s not _officially_ mine.” He very much disliked overtime and the idea that he was taking on a case that was, by all means, pro bono…

“Yes, well—correct me if I’m wrong but the fact that the woman in contention is a psychotic with violent tendencies does not bode well for my assurance of mind.”

“You know?” There was no hint of surprise in Will’s voice because—how could she not know? She was Frances Midford and that was explanation enough.

“I’m a mother and an aunt. These facts of life run parallel to my duty of making sure my daughter and nephew are safe, no matter where they are.”

His lips thinned. “Of course. One moment.” He nodded and disappeared down a brightly lit corridor before reappearing, this time holding two manila folders and a heavy black ink fountain pen. “Angela Blanc.” He handed her the first file. “And her brother, Ashfield Blanc.”

A spark of recognition appeared in her eyes as she opened the folder, skimming through the neatly organized papers and attaches with a mild look of surprise. “The Blancs? I hadn’t realized their daughter had been institutionalized.” Her voice was calm now—methodical and clear. An attorney at work. “I know their son,” she spoke this with a hint of distaste, “clever boy. Capable but capricious.” She looked up. “How—?”

“Pseudonym.” William replied mechanically. “She was committed a month after her sixteenth birthday to Halifax Hospital under the alias Jane White. No one knew about it. As far as they were concerned, Miss Blanc was attending boarding school in Switzerland and the select few who did know were paid off with a king’s ransom and the threat of personal ruin if they dared breathe a word of it to anyone else.”

Frances frowned. “This doesn’t detail how she escaped the asylum.” She glanced over at him, expression still very much the same, though by now, he’d become well acquainted with Frances Midford and her varying degrees of emotional articulation. 

 _Breakfast._ William nodded.

“No report of that incident was ever put on file.” He explained as they moved from the sitting room to the marbled kitchen. “My paralegal was able to obtain the information after a personal visit to the asylum.” He paused. “She clawed her way out.”

“Clawed?”

“Her cell was built using limestone and the centuries of erosion had loosened one of the stones to the point where she was able to chisel out a narrow passageway. Mr. Blanc had selected the hospital for their discretion and distance from London but never took into account the fallacies of the institution, namely its age, shortage of personnel, and decaying infrastructure. Honestly,” Will turned on the teakettle, “it would have saved a great deal of time had he simply paid closer attention.”

“Yes and we all know how you dislike overtime.” Frances returned dryly, seating herself at the breakfast bar.

William cleared his throat. “This isn’t overtime.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the Midford marchioness lift her head, mildly amused but mostly curious. “This is a debt that I have begun to regret incurring.”

“Well we all know you and your gambling ways.”

William’s lip twitched. “Indeed. Chamomile?”

She nodded. The gesture was familiar—quietly reassuring.

“Her condition—is it bound to deteriorate to the point of physical harm?” The page she turned to showed a half blurred photograph of Sebastian Michaelis holding onto a pale young woman dressed in a slim column gown. “If her intention is to enslave the man then we really oughtn’t begrudge the girl for poor judgement.”

“Indeed. If that was the only point of contention then I would have turned his request away. Far be it from me to keep that debauched philanderer from paying penance—“ he caught a hint of a smile on the lady’s painted lips and allowed himself to relax, ever so slightly “—but her history of violence may very well result in his permanent indemnification, whether that be by gun, blade, or poison.”

“And to herself?”

“Suicide.”

Frances nodded. “I see. Well, his contrition is something I feel no remorse in seeing but I would prefer for it to be done on legal grounds.” She glanced up at the dark haired lawyer, an expression of resigned commitment etching itself onto her face. “If she’s headed to Paris then we’ll need to intercept her before she can.” She said matter-of-factly. “I’ll purchase the tickets.”

Behind him, the kettle whistled.

 

* * *

 

Elizabeth brought over baguettes, croissants, pears, Crottin de Champcol, and a bottle Sancerre. They were all situated in a wicker basket lined with red and white checkered cloth, which she handed to him with a bright smile and no other explanation.

“…Is this you way of saying you want to have a picnic?” A booming crack of thunder followed, lighting up the dark grey skies and illuminating the damp, sodden streets below.

Lizzy’s smile didn’t falter. “Sure is!” She beamed before giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Tell me how it goes alright?”

Ciel frowned. “You’re not staying?”

“Why would I?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not gonna eavesdrop on you two.”

“Eavesdrop…? Lizzy, for christ’s sake I’m not—it’s _fucking raining_ and anyway, we’re not like that—“ he stuttered out an incoherent protest that did little to wipe away his cousin’s smirk. 

“Ciel, baby blue, don't even start with that crap—you have the _entire_ top floor to yourselves. It’s raining. We can’t shoot outside the Musée Rodin and you just happen to have an undeniably attractive photographer who can’t look away from you for more than five minutes.” She crossed her arms. “So I planned an indoor picnic for you the two of you!”

He rolled his eyes. “I appreciate the sentiment but _this,_ ” he glared down at the wicker basket, “is a waste of time. We’re not like that.”

“Uh-huh. I also included a few movies, Serge and Jane’s record—because Sebastian _totally_ looks like the type of guy who’d keep a record player around—“ _well,_ Ciel shrugged, _she’s not wrong_ “—and lavender scented lubricant.”

“You— _what?!_ ”

“Lube.” Lizzy repeated airily. “I didn’t know if you ran out already.”

“What the _fuck,_ Liz!” A rosy red blush colored his cheeks and lips as she glanced down at the basket. “How did you find this—“ he _really_ couldn’t bring himself to say the actual words out loud “—in the middle of Paris?”

“Same way I find everything else—by walking around.”

“Oh my god.” He closed his eyes briefly, thanking whatever deity was out there that Sebastian was still in the conference room downstairs taking a phone call. “Alright. Whatever—thanks.” He began walking towards the door, fully intent on showing Lizzy out and then pretending like this exchange never happened, but something held him back. “How’re things with you and Grey?” He asked tentatively, setting the basket down on the kitchen table. “He hasn’t pissed you off already?”

“No, I threw a vase at his head.”

Ciel blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” She looked somewhat embarrassed but then smiled, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “I overreacted when I saw this violet eyed vixen trying to prostitute herself to him and let me tell you, he was nowhere near Paris’s red light district.”

“So you threw a vase at his head and he was…okay with it?” And Ciel didn’t quite know what to think. He loves his cousin, really he does, but Lizzy’s temper was one of fire and fury and he pitied any man foolish enough to provoke it. Sadly, however, Charles Grey was, in all respects, an idiot.

Lizzy blushed and Ciel could only imagine what sort of…recreational activities they engaged in afterwards that could make _Elizabeth Midford_ blush but decided to hold his tongue. “I think I like him…a lot. More than I want to.” She murmured quietly, tugging on the lace sleeve of her Saint Laurent top. “I mean—he’s fun, you know? Fun and entertaining to be around but we both know what a horrid track record I have with men and he’s a _playboy_ but I…” she bit her lip, “I really like him.”

 _Yeah._ Ciel muttered silently. _I know how you feel._

“So what do you intend to do?” He wasn’t asking because he himself had no idea. No—this was just…familial curiosity. That was it.

Lizzy shrugged. “You mean long term? I don’t know. I don’t even think Charles _does_ long term but I’m certainly not gonna beat myself up over it.” She bit her lip. “I’ll sound like the basic white bitch I am when I say this but _screw it._  Carpe diem.” Lizzy laughed softly as she looked back at Ciel. “If it only takes one day for an empire to fall then I don’t see why I can’t live every hour until then.”

“You can’t be serious.” Ciel felt a small wave of panic bubbling inside him. “People can’t live moment to moment Lizzy. They need plans, arrangements…contingency plans and emergency plans in case the original plan doesn’t work out. Humans can’t just dive into shit without thinking it through.”

“Ciel that’s fucking bullshit and you know it.” Lizzy interrupted. “You really think people can map out their lives, their _entire lives_ —all their experiences and moments—beforehand?” She shook her head. “We can have an idea of where we want to wind up but Ciel, we can’t control the circumstances that get us there. I know you’re worried about this thing between you and Sebastian—“

“No I’m not.”

“Yeah,” she gave him a soft smile as she walked closer so they stood side by side, “you _are._ And that’s okay because I’m sure he feels the same way.” Unthinkingly, Ciel rested his head on her shoulder, momentarily soothed by how she smelled of candied citrus and everything beautiful. “It’s okay, Ciel.” She repeated as he closed his eyes. “Falling in love is okay.”

“I’m not—“

“Yeah,” Lizzy smiled, squeezing his hand, “you are.”

 

Their kisses were exchanged with mounting fervor as Ciel straddled Sebastian, the two of them on the creme carpet of Sebastian’s penthouse suite as the spring storm raged outside. Sebastian’s hands steadied Ciel’s hips, fingers pressed beneath the fabric of Ciel’s shirt, gently caressing the soft skin still hidden from view. Their heartbeats were tangled and Ciel’s blood rushed furiously; he felt hazy as his pulse pounded in his ears, as his eyes remained closed while his fingertips moved to trace his partner’s jawline.

 _Partner?_ His half-muddled brain sneered. _He’ll leave you any second now, you silly, ignorant_ ** _child_** _._

But the way Sebastian’s hips rose, how he seemed to languish beneath Ciel’s touch as a shadow would the moon—made it seem like he was waiting for something, an order? A command? Ciel paused, biting down on his lower lip. 

They were a tangle of flesh and silk, their limbs intertwined and clothing skewed but still firmly pressed against their respective bodies. Sebastian’s arousal pressed against Ciel’s thigh but the older man made no effort to undress him, to even speak of anything that didn’t require their lips meeting again and again. Those ruby-amethyst eyes that usually hid so much were cautious this time around, looking at Ciel as if he were a lunar sunrise.

His gaze transfixed Ciel, whose thin chest rose and fell with ragged breathes—whose fingers couldn’t seem to let go of the front of Sebastian’s shirt—and whose indifference had finally given way to something like panic.

“What’s wrong?” Sebastian’s hand came to trace the curve of Ciel’s cheek and the younger man wanted to laugh, half-crazed and so wretchedly afraid.

 _You damned fool,_ he felt his lungs collapsing,  _ **n**_ ** _othing’s_** _wrong, don’t_ ** _ever_** _ask that._

And it was true.

What could be wrong when the world was being contained in the throes of a thunderstorm, when this living room floor was all that existed, and when Sebastian’s kisses were the only things he needed? He wanted to melt into this enigmatic bastard the way liquor seeped into blood, wanted Sebastian to swallow him like honey so they could share a part of each other, hidden from the prying eyes of all those who didn’t matter.

Sebastian’s hand continued to trace Ciel’s face, moving from his cheek to the fragile cut of his jaw, admiring the delicate bone structure with the eyes of an artist.

"You seem troubled." 

"I'm fine." His voice sounded husky, as if he'd just screamed through a thunderstorm. 

"No, I don't believe you are." He chuckled. "You look like a model who's just learned she's pregnant before Fashion Week." 

Ciel rolled his eyes. "I'm not pregnant." 

"But you're not fond of children." 

"Who would be?" He snapped irritably. "They're spoiled, squeamish brats who look like deformed Botticelli angels." 

"Well. You're parents had you."

Ciel's eyebrow twitched.  _This fucking—_

"I am a fucking  _delight._ " The model shot back in a lofty voice, pressing his thighs closer to Sebastian's side. "You're the one who makes babies cry." 

"Mmh, I don't think so." He smiled deviously. "It's the other way around." 

"Wanna bet?" 

"We could always adopt." Sebastian mused blithely—carelessly, as if he'd just suggested they open another bottle of wine. He continued to fondle the neckline of Ciel's shirt, purposely ignoring the way the younger man had frozen up, how his breathing had suddenly become shallow and his jaw was clenched. 

It took a good three minutes before Ciel found his voice again. " _That_ was a shit joke." He pressed his hand on Sebastian's chest, leaning over so their faces were only a few inches apart. "Don't do that again." 

"What makes you think I was joking?"

"Because you  _always are._ Don't think you're fooling anyone. You can feign sincerity but I see the way you look at people. You can't stand them. Men, women, children—you talk to them like they were only put on this earth for your entertainment and  _boy,_ you must think it  _so funny_ that no one's noticed. Well," his breath kissed Sebastian's half parted lips, "I have." 

Sebastian's eyes darkened. "You're on the wrong end of the spectrum." 

Ciel's mouth twisted. "Yeah, no. I'm pretty sure I'm fucking right." 

"Partially." The artist gave him an indulgent smile before it faded into a bone white expression of false indifference. "But not with you."

A strange pain twisted in Ciel’s chest—a blatant discomfort that he did his very best to ignore, even as his stomach fluttered at the way Sebastian seemed to be looking at him. He forced his throat to open. “The fuck are you going on about?” He needed to push this erratic behavior aside, to banish it from memory because how else was he going to _move on—_

“Ciel.”

This whole affair had become dangerous—a tempest he never wanted to take on. It wasn’t Angela—

“Listen to me.”

Because who the _fuck_ gave a damn about some schizophrenic maniac when their surname was _Phantomhive?_ His father would sooner commit first degree murder than see his only child injured—

“ _Ciel._ ” Sebastian’s hands seized his wrists, forcibly clawing Ciel back to reality with a gentle kiss to his open palm.

It irritated the model and fashioned in him something unreasonable and ill-tempered and cruel. “What?” He snatched his hand away to cross his arms, looking imperiously down at the black haired artist whose eyes were never one precise color. “Just spit it out already. This isn’t some fucking 19th century novel and I’m not here to analyze literary motifs or what have you.” The words escaped Ciel with such ease—such cool, grounding familiarity that once he started, he couldn’t stop. “My god, I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for the past hour but all you do is stare at me. I don’t like people looking at me at the best of times and you certainly aren’t an exception. If you don’t wanna fuck then get out.”

For a moment there was silence. Echoing, uncomfortable silence as Ciel glared out the window, forcing his eyes to remain on the slanted terra cotta rooftop of some bullshit building while Sebastian was still as stone beneath him. The rapid hammering of his heart had ceased (thank god) and Ciel felt steady—stable. As if gravity had reappeared for the first time in _days._

He didn’t even register Sebastian getting up, didn’t notice that he was sitting alone, crosslegged on the floor, until he heard the closing click of the front door.

Then only silence remained. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "Serge and Jane's record..." refers to the shockingly erotic song 'Je t'aime...moi non plus' recorded by Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin in 1969. The lyrics, production, and execution were so sensual that it was banned in several countries and denounced by the pope. 
> 
> A/N: Ahh everyone thank you so much for your feedback and support! Seriously, it means a lot to me that people are still willing to read this fic—you guys make me wanna see it through to the end! 
> 
> Please, please review - I promise it makes me update faster :)


	9. with affection

“Well. This is a fine mess you’ve found yourself in.” Madam Red, provocateur of all things vogue, smiled breezily as she took the empty seat next to Sebastian. “Smoke?” She offered, clasping open a gold cigarette case. 

“Madam.” He answered, sounding more dead than alive sitting there, half slouched on the lounge seat and dressed all in black. A glass of scotch was loosely held on his left thigh while he half-observed the opulent seduction of the Crimson Lounge. “How on earth did you find me here.”

“Careful darling,” she crossed her legs, “just because you’re beautiful doesn't mean I won’t toss you out for insolence.” 

“Insolent? Me?” He titled his chin slightly, the most he’d moved in an hour. “I’m appalled you would ever think that, Madam. You know I’m at your... _deference._ ”

She pursed her painted lips, half-amused but mostly annoyed. “It appears to me, Sebastian dear, that my blue nephew has more than just shattered your heart—he’s also bruised that rare judgement of yours. You sound like a petulant schoolgirl and I find that rather distasteful. Uncouth. 2000s trashy.”

“Oh?” He arched a brow, continuing to bath in the hazy lights that illuminated above, below, and around him. It was all crimson. 

“You’ll have to give my nephew time. He’s not particularly well-versed when it comes to handling affairs of the heart.” She spoke empathically—kindly—and in a manner few thought possible.

“ _Ah._ So  _that's_ why you think I’m here.” He chuckled, raising his half-empty glass. “You needn't be so introspective, Madam. I’ve only heard great things about the Lounge and for you to come to an entirely difficult conclusion shows you hold a rather poor opinion of your own fine establishment.”

She laughed briefly before putting a cigarette between her lips. Sebastian provided her with the light. “Ciel was right,” she chuckled, “you do have a wretched way with words.”

“How charming.” He pocketed the lighter. “Aren’t you supposed to be breaking someone’s heart right now?”

“Of course. And I’ve already chosen my next victim.” She shot him a sly smile. 

 _Well then._ He might have thought this amusing had he been able to feel anything at all. “Forgive me but this here,” he raised his glass, “is company enough for tonight.”

“Darling I never said _I_ was going to be the _reason_ for your broken heart.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you haven’t denied it.” She held her cigarette in her left hand, allowing smoke to drift towards the bar. “Don’t become impatient with him. This is new and he's frightened, and if there's anything Ciel hates more than helplessness, it's _uncertainty._ And right now, he's feeling both those things—particularly since you’re rather hard to swallow.” Sebastian’s dark gaze slid towards her, an expression of annoyed bemusement on his pretty face.

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean it like that. But you do come off rather strong and he’s a Phantomhive. He's naturally suspicious of anyone who doesn’t want to kill him and you...well, you're killing him a _very_ different way than what he's used to.” A plume of pale smoke escaped her crimson mouth. “In any case, you’ve waited this long haven’t you? Why not wait a few more weeks?”

“That, _madame,_ might be difficult since we’re leaving this fair city in four days.”

“Of course.” She smiled. “But that doesn’t mean you have to stop fighting for him.”

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have lashed out at Sebastian with such fire and fury because, despite everything, he _was_ his photographer. And Sebastian could be petty—Ciel knows this first hand. It’s probably why the next day, while they’re outside the Musée Rodin and he’s modeling sharp black velvet, Ciel finds himself being forced to stay after because Sebastian needed a "few" reshoots. 

“You’re too stiff.” The photographer smiled blithely, carelessly changing cartilages (he wanted to go old school this time) as the crew retreated. (“Oh, and we’ll use natural lighting,” he exclaimed cheerfully _six fucking hours_ ago.) “Try and loosen up.”

“This is an _evening wear_ campaign,” Ciel ground out, “not some California beach shoot.”

“Yes it is. And in every single shot you look as if someone’s impaled you with a sword from behind. It’s unbecoming.”

Ciel’s eye twitched. _So the bastard wants to play does he?_ “Go light yourself on fire.”

“As much as I enjoy your vulgar counterclaims and needless charm, I’ll have to ask you to keep it professional this evening. We’ve a lot of work to do.” His ruby eyes were glimmering with amusement. 

“What, you think your hissy fit’s professional?”

“Give me a 45 degree turn and look towards the Orpheus sculpture.”

 _Well fuck you too._ He sounded _so damn smug,_ Ciel seethed with thinly veiled distaste. There Sebastian stood, dressed in his stupid slim cut jeans and fucking white henley with the sleeves rolled up and _god,_ his _forearms—_ when did he start wearing a leather cuff? Was that a fashion statement? Or was it something _Angela_ gave him—“Ciel are you listening to me?”

Quickly, the model complied to whatever inane instructions Sebastian was giving out, biting his tongue to keep from lashing out again. “When's this gonna be done? I’m hungry.”

“How quaint.” He heard the shutter click. “I certainly won’t be feeding you.”

 _Oh, petty was_ ** _right_** _—how can one man be so fucking salty?_ And really, Ciel would’ve laughed had his heart not felt like screaming. After all, wasn’t it human nature to try and protect oneself? Sebastian’s ego was wounded but he’d get over it. Ciel on the other hand wasn’t going to get burned _ever again—_ he was a Phantomhive and a single humiliation was one too many. Pride, after all, was the essence of nobility.

“Come closer, I need to capture the detailing on the evening jacket.” Sebastian paused. “And we’re moving to the Marble Gallery. The contrast between white marble and black velvet ought to be one of charming enough mystique.”

“Well don’t let my presence force you to settle.” Ciel bit out sarcastically but complied, wincing with each step he took.

The black patent leather derby shoes—done in the classic YSL Le Smoking style—pinched at his toes and made movement uncomfortable. And Sebastian, that damnable bastard, fucking _knew._

“‘It’s unbecoming’ my _ass,_ ” Ciel snarled under his breath, picking his way through the lush, carefully pruned gardens, “Oscar Wilde was right. Morality really _is_ the attitude we adopt towards people we dislike.” Some part of Ciel—however minuscule—couldn’t believe how quickly Sebastian could devolve after getting his ego bruised by a 19 year old boy. Since six in the morning he’d been a fucking thorn in his side—waking him up at some ungodly hour before dawn with a sadistic half-smirk because “I need a morning sunrise shot for the navy suit” before practically throwing Ciel out on the veranda and _keeping him there_ for two fucking hours.

He’d never wanted to bash someone’s skull in so badly before.

And then, at approximately 9:15 AM at the Musée Rodin, Sebastian had gamely insisted on using the Hôtel Biron as their backdrop which wouldn’t have been a problem had he not suggested Ciel stand _directly under the sun._ For an hour afterwards Ciel thought he’d gone blind in one eye. And _then_ , when lunch came around, Sebastian all but snubbed Ciel by choosing to talk on the phone to that Will bastard before reappearing half an hour _late_ to his  _own location shoot._

And this was  _before_  Sebastian went and threw a full on temper tantrum, swinging wildly between hot and cold, forcing Ciel to change poses, change suits, change hairstyles, change venues, change fucking _everything,_ until now. It also didn’t escape Ciel's notice that all these conditions had been thrown at him _after_ the crew—and Lizzy—left. She looked fairly disappointed in him but _whatever,_ he wasn’t the one causing trouble on set. He was being _fucking mature_ if he did say so himself.

Yet despite that, some tiny part of Ciel—a negligible, unreasonable part that is—wondered if Sebastian was reacting in the only way he knew how. That maybe this wasn’t fueled by spite or ego but something softer...something _sweeter._ That desperate aching part of Ciel wondered if Sebastian was hurt, that somewhere along the way he’d felt something other than sexual gratification. The photographer was loquacious, snarky, and an over the top drama queen—he could feign romance as well as Romeo (maybe more so) but Ciel wasn’t stupid. He read the society pages, blogs, and talked to everyone worth knowing—and they all said the same thing.

Sebastian Michaelis was an unapologetic hedonist who immersed himself in his affairs and left a trail of broken hearts behind him. He thought it was _fun._

He thought it was fucking  _sport._

It was why he mocked Sebastian’s flowery proclamations of affection, those abstract poems he wove with his words, because he knew they were just that—proclamations, empty and cold. They didn’t mean anything. Didn’t carry any weight. Ciel refused to believe otherwise. He was a pragmatist, not some teenage girl mooning over impossible crushes. He didn’t do _romance,_ that’s why he chose modeling—it was a cold, clinical profession that paid well and left you numb. It was what he needed after learning that love was meant for cinema screens, not real life.

So he pushed it aside and moved on.

 

* * *

 

“You know, I’ve always thought that a moment of solitude was a beautiful thing but when that moment stretches into a twenty minute interlude, it loses it charm and becomes more _tedious_ than anything else.” There was a curious little half-smile decorating Sebastian’s mouth but his tone was cold and sounded as if it could cut through glass.

Ciel grimaced as he finally dragged himself to the sea of white marble. Each sculpture was a revelation and the evening sky had painted everything a distant violet—a nightingale’s song.

Ciel, however, did not give a shit about that. “You walked too fast.” He returned bitterly. “I can’t walk in these shoes.”

“Could you not?” He sounded faker than a can of Cheez Whiz. “Do pardon my thoughtlessness—I’d forgotten that minor detail.”

“Whatever.” Ciel sighed tiredly. He just needed this day to _end._ “Let’s just get this done.” He moved towards a sculpture of a man and woman falling into each other’s embrace. “Does this work?” He leaned against the woman’s back, turning his head slightly to meet Sebastian’s gaze. “Well? You’ve got a reputation to live up to before you can devolve into pornography. May as well savor it. Who knows where you’ll end up in ten years.”

Sebastian adjusted his lens. “Aren’t we cynical this evening.” He said in the same placid tone he always used. He sounded cool. Cool, suave, and oh so bored with the situation at hand.

It relaxed Ciel. It was  _familiar_ to Ciel. “You know what they say.” He felt a flash of the camera on his right cheek and figured they’d be done in the next forty-five minutes. His feet were killing him. 

“Don’t stop now.” Sebastian mused. “Astound me with your acumen, Lord Phantomhive.”

Ciel shifted so that half his body now pressed against the shadowed marble. The moonlight illuminated the delicate cut of his jaw and displayed the intricate silk threads of his dinner jacket. “Cynicism,” Ciel began, “is the human basis of philosophy. Even those Enlightened thinkers of the 18th century had to presume that the very nature of man was of a darker affliction. Why else would they champion republicanism so ardently? Because they knew one ruler was a despot waiting to take action. Throw in another forty nine and you get selfishness combatting selfishness or, as we westerners call it—democracy.”

“So you align yourself with Hobbes and his belief that the life of man is poor, nasty, brutish, and short?”

“Sure.” Ciel stood with his hands in his pockets, weight pressed against one leg. “Whoever came up with that ‘trust no one’ slogan was dead on.”

“Isn’t that a vitriolic conclusion.” A few more shutter clicks followed. “You hold no fondness for the beguilement of human wit?”

“What wit? All we do is pass on good advice because no one thinks it applies to themselves. That’s not wit. That’s being a fucking parrot.”

“And you think you’re the exception?” At this point, Ciel couldn’t quite pinpoint Sebastian’s location. His voice echoed, sounding both distant and near.

He scoffed. “Are you really asking me that?” A cool breeze blew by, carrying the scent of lilac blossoms. “I’m the worst offender of all. All this,” he gestured around him, “is just for show. I’m _bored._ Why else do you think we have alcoholics and sex addicts? Because they’re bored too.” He shifted his weight to his other leg and hissed. He felt as if he'd just stepped on a pointed knife blade. “Fuck,” he muttered. Sweat beaded on his brow as he leaned against the cool marble. “Are you done?” He called out irritably, annoyed that he couldn’t see much but the glimmering white of the silent sculptures surrounding him.

There was a pause, the shifting of cartilage again followed by the slight rustling of fabric. “We can be.” Sebastian’s voice called out. “It’s getting too dark to shoot anything worthwhile now.”

“Great.” Ciel hissed. “Help me take these shoes off.”

“I’m afraid that’ll have to wait. I have a phone call I simply can’t miss.” The smothered amusement in his voice sparked a hurricane of anger to erupt in Ciel—an anger, he quickly remembered, that wasn’t justified. They weren’t “together” anymore and it wasn’t exactly Sebastian’s job to carry him in between photoshoots.

The model’s lips thinned. “Fine.” Ciel snapped, sliding down to the marble floor (there goes a $7,000 suit) where he began to free himself from the confinements of his patent leather derby’s. The laces fell to the side and Ciel managed to tug the shoe off with a sharp hiss of pain. 

His eyes widened at what he saw. 

The delicate white skin of his foot was completely mangled—his toes, the ball of his foot, were bruised and bloodied. He could even feel the warm, sticky blood coagulating between his toes while the tattered skin around his inner arch throbbed dully. 

“Fuck,” Ciel muttered quietly, unlacing his other shoe to see the same mess of flesh and blood staining the polished black leather. He really isn’t surprised—after all, Sebastian had dragged him up at six AM and Saint Laurent shoes weren’t exactly known for their comfort. A small part of him was mildly concerned over the possibility of infection but the greater part—the more irritable and  _Ciel_ part of himself—was annoyed that he’d end up staining his bedsheets with blood.

It wouldn’t be the first time (he’d gotten frequent nosebleeds as a child) but the sickly copper scent was not one he was fond of and the idea that any part of him could look less than perfect was very much a problem. Vanity, it seemed, did not sleep with the moon.

 _At least the pathway’s clear._ He mused dryly, getting up onto his feet, shoes dangling between his fingertips. Before he could take a single step forward, a shadow caught his eye—a looming, 6’2 shadow—and Ciel rolled his eyes.

“Here to watch the final scene of  _Cinderella?_ ” He snapped dryly. “Grimm Brothers got it right. There’s certainly enough blood to go around. Shame these aren’t glass slippers.” He snickered lightly, glancing at the black leather derby’s. “Probably not my best idea to wear these without socks.” 

“No, it seems you can’t very well think at six in the morning can you?” Sebastian’s voice was cruel and Ciel could just picture that smug look on his stupid face.

“I _can_ but you were just annoying me. Couldn’t get away from you fast enough.” He meant it as a joke but suddenly found himself weightless. In the blink of an eye, he was being cradled in Sebastian’s arms and the ruby eyed photographer did _not_ look happy. “The hell? Put me the _fu_ —“

“You’re being a little too stubborn.” Sebastian interrupted, tightening his hold around Ciel's shoulders. “I can’t very well have a muse who’s crippled now can I?”

Ciel smirked, relaxing in Sebastian’s arms. “Guess not. Thanks for the ride though. Nice to have a human Uber to chauffeur me around.” 

“Don’t get used to it.” They crossed the lemongrass field and were on the stone pathway leading to the Hôtel Biron before Sebastian began to speak again. “The fact that you can injure yourself while _standing_ is a ridiculous feat.” Ciel scowled and tried to glare at him but the starless night made it difficult to see his exact features. “It's rather funny, don’t you think?” They passed below the pale moon and Ciel saw that Sebastian's smile was a sharp, hideous thing—all teeth and canines and something else as they walked further from the gardens.

There was a hint of decay perfuming the air but Ciel ignored it, fixing his eyes over Sebastian’s shoulder to glare at the low hanging tree branches. He crossed his arms. “Do I look like I’m laughing?”

“You don’t laugh.” Sebastian returned and _fuck,_  Ciel winced. The words affected him more than it should have. _I laughed with you,_ he wanted to say but quickly banished that thought from his mind. It was the exhaustion.

It _had_ to be.

“You think we’ll be able to wrap this up before the deadline?” He asked conversationally.

“Perhaps. Of course, they’ll need to be processed and edited so I wouldn’t prepare for anything more than two days at most.”

“You’re not gonna bitch call me at six AM every fucking day until we leave are you?” The thought was mildly horrifying.

Sebastian chuckled but it sounded strange and Ciel couldn’t quite figure out why that was. “Rest assured, I don’t relish the role of slavedriver.”

“Thank god. You know I’m only running on like three hours of sleep and five espressos right?”

“Oh?” There was a dangerous iciness to Sebastian’s voice now—a silkiness that immediately put Ciel on edge.

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Didn’t sleep a whole lot.”

“And why do you suppose that is?”

“I think it’s because I forgot to open the window.” Ciel forced out, ignoring the way Sebastian’s grip tightened—how his breathing changed and his posture grew rigid.

He Ignored how conversation fell silent between them and how later, after Sebastian had deposited him onto his bed at the Four Seasons, felt as if he’d failed a rather obvious test.

 

* * *

 

For what it was worth, Charles Grey really, genuinely liked Elizabeth Midford. It was a plain and simple fact he couldn’t ignore (Grey preferred to face things as they were) because _hell,_ here he was at the ungodly hour of 9 AM _holding hands_ with Lizzy (yes, he called her _Lizzy_ ) while they strolled down the pale stone bridge overlooking the Seine. The morning air was cool and smelled so distinctly Parisian that Grey was reminded of why he’d exiled himself to France in the first place—espressos, fresh croissants, late night champagne, and Dior parfume intermingled in a heady mix that really shouldn’t work but _did._

Beside him, Lizzy walked with the sort of careless grace you see in movies—eyes dreamy and beautiful while a soft smile decorated her lips. Typically, Grey preferred his women done up and pretty—it was just a fact of life and he was, in some respects, a bit of a misogynistic pig. He didn’t like it when women tried that bare faced, unbrushed hair look—it wasn’t cute. It was… _unkempt,_ and he couldn’t wait to get them out of his mansion fast enough.

But Lizzy—Lizzy was  _different,_ Grey thought absently. She didn't really need makeup—her skin was soft and creamy, her cheeks and lips naturally flushed, her emerald eyes dazzled all on their own, and she had fucking _adorable_ bedhead—tumbling golden curls and all. And when she was dressed in one of Grey’s white button downs, the ones that skimmed her thighs because she’s _petite_ standing next to him, and she’s not wearing a bra (which is a terribly French thing to do) she’s just…fucking perfect. And he can’t stop looking at her. Who really cared about some French river when you’ve got Elizabeth, who was all the colors of the sunrise painted in the most astonishing way, whose got this smile that he can’t even begin to _explain…_

He tugged her hand closer, giving it a not so gentle squeeze but Lizzy doesn’t flinch—she’s not afraid when he gets rough. Kind of likes it actually and Grey _hates_ delicate women.

“I’m gonna be cliche and ask.” Lizzy declared suddenly. “You’re too quiet—you’re not planning a homicide are you?”

He snorted. “Who do you take me for? Your cousin?”

She thought about it and then shrugged. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Ciel did have a murderous edge to him this morning.”

 _And every other minute of his life._ Grey wanted to add but decided he liked sleeping in his own bed. With her. So he bit his tongue (literally) and moved onto a safer topic. “I also hear you’re leaving in three days.”

“Now who told you that?” She inquired, laughter on the tip of her tongue.

“Lucky guess.”

Lizzy sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. Their walk had slowed to a stroll but Grey found that he didn’t mind the leisurely pace, which was odd since he was usually a whirlwind of movement and activity.

Instead, he pressed a kiss on top of her head. It really was like a halo of gold.

“Well, you're right about that.”

_Hm?_

“The shoot wraps up in three days and then it’s back to LA.”

_Ah. Right._

“And I’m not going to ask for your phone number.” She added matter-of-factly.

“Excuse me? Why the hell not?” His tone grew harsh. “How am I—I mean, how are _you_ supposed to contact me?” He corrected quickly, suddenly hyperaware that the sun was rising way too fucking fast.

He just missed her mischievous grin. “Well I figure that’d be kinda pointless since I’m going to be in Avignon three days later.”

“You—what?” 

Lizzy giggled and when she looked up, Grey decided she looked the perfect mix of cherubic angel and cheeky devil. “I have my Versace shoot in France too and Donatella expects something _very_ Borgia-esque. Scandalous and just bordering on the illegal.”

“You’re not thinking of smashing gallery windows are you?”

Lizzy looked aghast. “I said 'bordering the illegal' not _sacrilegious!_ ” She smacked his chest but he laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, tugging her close. “Besides my dad’s friends with one of the gallery owners." She continued. "Ashton Blanc, do you know him?”

He frowned. The name _did_ sound strangely familiar—but it’d been a while since he’d been to the states. “Vaguely. He has a son, doesn’t he?”

She nodded. “Ashfield.”

“Creative.” Grey rolled his eyes.

“And a daughter too but I haven’t seen her since she went to boarding school.”

 _Boarding school?_ “Why, was she an alcoholic?”

“I actually don’t know.” Lizzy admitted. She remembered Angela Blanc as a beautiful, serene figure with lavender hair and a delicate smile. She looked as if she were made of glass and liked to recite poetry from the time to time. In fact, the most amount of time Lizzy had ever spent with her was at the governor’s ball but Angela had pled illness and fled midway through. “I hope she’s alright.” Lizzy murmured aloud. “She was never very healthy.”

“Far be it from me to judge a diet of champagne and cocaine.”

Lizzy opened her mouth to defend Angela but then realized she had no idea if her defense was true or not. All things considered—especially in Hollywood—that kind of lifestyle wasn’t unusual. “That reminds me, didn’t you use to do cocaine? Like nightly?”

“Sure,” Grey answered breezily, “but that was a lifetime ago in Caen. Your friend’s brother was also a coke head.”

“Ash?”

“Yeah, _Ashfield Blanc._ God, that name couldn't sound more religious if it tried, could it?” He laughed. “I nearly forgot about him till you reminded me—Blanc. I knew that name from somewhere.” Grey shook his head. “His family had a house in Caen not far from the metro and every night we used to go back there and get _plastered._ I mean, this guy was madhouse David Bowie. Ziggy Stardust right after he got high. He was _insane,_ I don’t know if he ever got off of it but when his parents dragged him back home, he was shaking nonstop at the station because he hadn’t had a fix in _four hours._ ” Grey chuckled, more amused than concerned. “Honestly, I didn’t even know he _had_ a sister. All he did was talk about his girlfriend.”

“That’s odd.” Lizzy’s voice sounded strange and Grey, with his sorry son of a bitch heart, immediately became concerned though he hid it well enough.

“What?” He kept his voice casual but his silver eyes were scanning Lizzy's features, looking for the slightest hint of panic.

“I mean…well, it’s not _odd_ but—Ash isn’t married. In fact, I don’t even think he’s been on a single _date._ Edward and he were acquaintances—they went to Cambridge together—and he told me that Ash used to write these obsessively long letters to his sister but every time they went to a dance or a party, Ash just clammed up. Never talked about girls unless it was his sister, Angela.”

Angela. What the actual—

Grey froze at the sudden realization because  _you have got to be kidding me._ It was coincidence—it _had_ to be a coincidence. 

“Grey?” Lizzy paused, looking up at him with concerned green eyes. “Charles, are you alright?" 

“His sister—her name’s Angela?”

“Yeah…”

“ _Fucking hell,_ Liz.” Grey ran a hand through his silver hair. “That’s the name of the girl Ash was in love with.”

 

* * *

 

The heavy cherrywood doors to his study closed with a silent thud, allowing Ash to ruminate in peace. He leaned against the cool wood, the door handle digging into his back as he gazed unseeingly at the painted ceiling. It was all done in heavy gold and dark red—two toppling colors that seemed to weigh each other down.

That seemed to weigh the _ceiling_ down. It felt as if it’d fall any second now, just collapse on him with a sort of final, vindictive triumph and truthfully, Ash would have welcomed it.

He was nothing without his sister. His good, sweet Angela who’d been sent to Manchester and who, in a bid of desperation, had escaped and forgotten where her home was. His poor, darling sister—it’d taken him _months_ to find her again after that _bastard,_ Ash’s eyes narrowed, just thinking of the man’s name caused him to feel ill, left her. So Ash did what he could to comfort Angela, the girl who was one half his own soul. Whose fragile hands held his heart because what was he without her? She was Angela and she was _beautiful,_ a gift, the doctors declared, from above.

Ash was only seven but he knew, right then and there, that his baby sister was something special. The doctors were amazed she’d survived, what with her weak lungs and their mother’s fragile health but live she did, Angela Antoinette Blanc. She was a gift from heaven itself and Ash swore he would protect her. He would love her with everything he had and see to it that she was safe and unharmed, that she would want for nothing because she deserved _everything._ Every last beautiful thing in this world—if she wanted it, he would give it to her.

In their youth, Angela would run up to him and he would pick her up, careful and doting, while she threw her arms around his neck whispering, “I love you _best,_ ” in between eager, childish kisses, “I love _you_ the most.”

_Angela._

He didn’t know what changed—or rather, he _did_ but such a blind, foolish mistake could be ignored couldn’t it? When Angela turned fourteen and suddenly became fair Aphrodite, with her moon pale skin and lavender hair, flirting with boys and laughing with her school friends. She was _happy_ but somehow, Ash _wasn’t._ Angela no longer ran into his arms, no longer peppered him with kisses every time she saw him. When he tried to hold her during one of their winter galas, Angela had kissed his cheek and said _no, brother._ Her eyes were kind and she moved away and it _hurt._

It hurt more than words could possibly say, more than the English language could express. It felt as if all the life had left his body—he was a dead man walking knowing his sister no longer wanted him. That she no longer, that _they_ were no longer— 

Two tentative taps interrupted his thoughts.

“Who is it?” He bit out harshly. 

“It is I, sir." 

 _Oh. Wilson._ Ash grimaced but forced himself to move away, to seat himself on the sofa near the still black fireplace. “Come in.” He said warily, not even pretending to busy himself. How could he, when his _sister_ was missing?

“Sir?” Wilson, the grey haired, ever faithful butler who’d served the Blancs since Ash was a child, stood to the side, a small, soft blanket draped over one arm. “Sir I apologize for this most inconvenient interruption but I’m afraid it’s the baby—“ 

“What’s wrong?” Ash’s voice was razor sharp—nothing, absolutely _nothing_ could happen to the baby. _Angela’s_ baby. “Wilson, what’s—“

“He’s fallen ill, sir.”

And Ash’s world shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Honestly I live for Ciel and Sebastian brutally sassing each other which is why I had to include a different sort of morning after XD 
> 
> Tell me what you think :)


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